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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24688102">like a beacon against the cold (you won't get lost with me)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothmanslover/pseuds/mothmanslover'>mothmanslover</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Disco Elysium (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Insert eyes emoji here), (cryptid time), (slash Commie Cop themes), (sometimes), Ancient Reptilian Brain is back at it again, Bi Harry, Case Fic, Finally, First Kiss, Harry Is Trying His Best, Harry has awful taste in shower gel, Internalized Homophobia, Kim isn't as stoic as you'd think, M/M, Nightmares, Past Drug Addiction, Photography, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Sorry Cop (Disco Elysium), They want to look after one another, They're tender ok, Yes I know Kim keeps running out of his flat at night he just doesn't sleep well ok, are they...you know....partners?, basically a lot of feelings, but like, mild telepathy, partners in the streets/partners in the sheets, they're competent!!, trying to figure yourself out and overcome it, voices</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:02:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>35,546</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24688102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothmanslover/pseuds/mothmanslover</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of their first case together and the TRIBUNAL, Kim Kitsuragi ends up nursing what he thinks is more than a simple concussion. He transfers out of the 57th and joins his disco partner-in-crime at what they both do best. And if there's an art heist gone wrong, a roadtrip through Revachol, and some psychic heart-to-hearts along the way, who can blame him?</p><p>Or: For some reason he now has VOICES in his head. Not only that, but it seems... Harry can hear them too?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>222</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Dawn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi! It's been a few years since I tried my hand at writing fanfic for anything, but this little game was such a joy to play that I fell in love with the characters and now we're here.<br/>Apologies in advance for any mistakes, I'm a STEM major so my extended writing is a little dodgy ;p<br/>Hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It begins like this: </p><p>Kim sleeps for two days straight after getting back from Martinaise. A concussion doesn’t heal on its own; the flood of adrenaline finally leaving his system after possibly the most chaotic, exercise-heavy, stressful week of his life is enough to knock a lesser man dead.  </p><p>He submits his paperwork without hitch the next Monday morning, and the case is considered a shining example of inter-precinct unity. He leaves the 57th nine days later, having given in his transfer notice with the case file.  </p><p>There is no leaving-do. He doesn’t expect one- he doesn’t have any real friends here after all, he doubts they know more than his last name in some cases. The closest he gets to a goodbye is the receptionist wishing him luck in his new job as he asks her if she could put in a vehicle transfer for the 41st. He takes the Kineema home anyway and hopes for the best. </p><p>Kim Kitsuragi is welcomed into his new position by Judit Minot, who takes him on a tour of the place and introduces him to some of the more prominent figures. He’s met her before, but they never really talked; she comes across as reserved but during a brief conversation with some of the others quickly reveals a warm-hearted disposition usually beaten out of detectives by the years on the job. There are a couple of people he knows from the last case, Jean in their midst, but no signs of Harry. The fact bothers him. A few officers shoot him pitiful looks and his heart sinks, until Judit reassures him that Harrier is on probation in the filing room until Jean allows him to take back his position.  </p><p>So he gets on with work, gets to know the squad, sits on his own at lunch. It’s fine. It’s normal. He comes in at 8 A.M. and leaves at 8 P.M. and doesn’t start conversations unless they’re work related.  </p><p>After the first week or so Kim occasionally glimpses Harry in the corridors, working on cold cases, flashing him a toothy grin. They end up sharing their lunch breaks and work gets a little more bearable after that.  </p><p>It’s a breath of fresh air after years working somewhere nobody cared about him- maybe as an officer, maybe as a wonderkid/hotshot/case-solving machine, but not the way the 41st seems to care about him as a person. The desks here are cluttered with casefiles and personal items, a touching change from the clinical neatness of his previous position. The lieutenant finds enough courage to stand a small plant in the corner of his, something he would have been teased for mercilessly back at the 57th . He starts to join in on small talk.   </p><p>It comes as a little bit of a shock when Harry later mentions how much they all <em>like </em>Kim, how they’ve been asking him for details concerning their first case and how the two of them met.  </p><p>“They all think you’re <em>devastatingly  </em>cool.”  Harry sighs over his sandwich, smiling at the lieutenant. Kim wonders how much of that is the detective’s personal bias, but it’s nice to hear either way. </p><p>“I wonder who told them.” He deadpans, eyebrows quirking with amusement.  </p><p>There’s a sudden warmth between them like a summer breeze, a tangible connection. Harry blinks rapidly, lost in thought, and turns back towards his food. </p><p>  ----- </p><p>It isn’t until later that IT really begins. </p><p>He’s lying in his bed, listening to the city around him. His flat is functional, the only homely touch being a small photo frame of him and his car, taken by an old partner. It reminds him a lot of his old life; reluctant to take up space, let himself indulge in more than the bare minimum. He is a naturally neat person, but there’s still that restraint hanging around here like a skeleton in the proverbial (ha!) closet. He thinks of buying more plants. An ornamental coffee-press. Getting those hub caps back from the pawn shop. </p><p><em> Two floors below, there’s a family who just moved in. The little girl is splashing in the tub and has used up most of the hot water; her father will curse </em><em>about the fact </em><em>loudly </em><em>in a couple of </em><em>hour'</em><em>s </em><em>time </em><em>when he leaves for  </em> <em> his shift </em> <em> . </em> </p><p><em> It’s a safe neighbourhood, or at least as safe as you get around here. Not many live here alone. </em><em>It </em><em>gets lonely. </em> </p><p>Kim freezes. The speaker is nowhere to be seen, and the voice radiates outwards with the same intonation as if Kim were speaking himself. There’s a smell like static in the air around him and he switches on his bedside lamp. He reaches into the drawer next to him, fingers wrapping round his gun. </p><p><em> Relax. There’s no-one here but you.  </em> <em> All your doors are locked- old habits die hard –and </em><em>the flat is small enough you </em><em>can see all the exits from your bed anyway. </em> </p><p>This voice is chalky, gruff, with an air of <em>gravitas. </em> It reminds him of the officer who trained him. That officer had been dead for four years now. </p><p>Maybe he’s losing it. Maybe the concussion was worse than he thought. It’s such a movie cliché, everyone gets knocked out with the butts of pistols and wakes up the next day sans brain damage. Kim steels himself and releases the gun, which rattles softly against the wooden bottom of the drawer. It’s unlike him to panic, and he’s secretly glad whatever breakdown he’s having is happening now and not at the precinct.  </p><p><em> We’re not so bad, I </em><em>promise </em> <em> .  </em> </p><p>Dolores Dei, there’s another one in his head. The lieutenant decides it’s in his head. There’s no other explanation. </p><p><em> There always is. </em> </p><p>These aren’t his thoughts. </p><p><em> No, I wouldn’t say that, </em>it agrees softly, <em>but then again no </em> <em> -one else can hear us. It’d do you wonders to </em><em>take it in </em><em>your stride, though. </em> </p><p>Kim sits up, puts on his glasses, throws on his bomber jacket. He knows he has his car keys in the coat pocket, thumbing at them through the fabric as he hurriedly makes his way down the stairwell. He spooks as his foot catches on a cardboard box. </p><p>Damn it. That hadn’t been there when he arrived earlier that evening, and new neighbours are not something he could have deduced without leaving his flat. The lieutenant curses softly and jams his hands into his trouser pockets. It isn’t just in his head, then. </p><p>He gets in the Kineema and has the keys in the ignition before he can stop himself and think. The radio displays a bleary 2:47 A.M., and he just hopes- </p><p>Hopes what?   </p><p>As much as his gut tells him he can trust Harry with his life, he doesn’t know how he’d explain his presence on his doorstep in the middle of the night without a concrete reason. It’s true, he has opened up to the man more than he has to anyone else in a long time. He feels braver next to him; they’ve faced a lot together and he knows deep down Harry would be happy to help him out with anything. </p><p><em> Harry stumbles out of bed across town, woken by bad dreams again. He’s been wary of any prescription drugs recently, not wanting to </em><em>relapse again</em><em>, and so hasn’t taken sleeping pills in a while</em><em>. </em><em>He pours himself a glass of water, opens a book, and settles back into bed. </em> </p><p>It’s the same voice that told him about his neighbours. It hisses like machinery and old pipework, the rustle of garbage and dead leaves underfoot, the halcyon glow of fluorescent street lights. The voice of his city. It sends a... shiver... up Kim’s spine. </p><p>SHIVERS hums melodically, bringing about memories of an old power generator near where he grew up. <em>I suppose we’re past introductions now. </em> </p><p>He’s too tired for this. Kim turns off the engine and goes back to his bed.  </p><p>His dreams are confusing and full of conversation.  </p><p>----- </p><p>Things begin to shift, gradually. Harry presents Jean with a doctor’s note stating he is seeing a therapist (<em>one </em><em>that specialises in dealing with addiction</em>, a smooth voice prompts Kim unannounced, causing him to startle); Jean starts to include Harry in precinct outings and Kim even spots them going out for lunch together. For the next few weeks at the 41st he works odd jobs with miscellaneous people, all as diametrically opposite to detective Du Bois as you could get. The lieutenant misses him, a fact he begrudgingly admits the fifth week at the precinct when Jean corners him and asks outright if he should assign him his partner- officially.  </p><p>There’s a celebration, of course. Harrier got off probation (and shuffled his way out of Jean’s bad books) in the fourth week of Kim at the 41st, and his eyes shine with glee as Kim breaks the good news to him a couple of days later over a watery coffee at the café.  </p><p>He doesn’t want to blame the voices on Harry- he's just a good detective who has an eye for patterns, and they seem to intensify whenever the two of them are near. They’re easier to deal with around Harry though, as the detective doesn’t seem to mind Kim pausing mid-conversation to collect himself or question his newfound nose for clues he would have never spotted with just his own senses. If anything, the two of them work better together now than ever before, and Kim admits there’s more method to the madness when he can actually make the same connections Harry jumps to.  </p><p>He isn’t used to it though and has to remind himself to stay calm every time one brushes past <em> his  </em>inner monologue. They disappear as abruptly as they announce themselves, and it isn’t long before he is familiar with the lot- and there are a LOT of them.  </p><p>There’s another curiosity when he’s near to Harry- he wants to say some sort of <em>feedback </em>in his head, static on the radio between stations. It amplifies with physical touch, Kim notes as the detective slings an arm around him on a particularly cold stake-out night  (<em>e</em><em>asy there, Kimball, are you sure it’s not just your imagination? His strong arms, </em><em>the warmth of where his fingertips press into your shoulder... </em> ELECTROCHEMISTRY purrs). He doesn’t know how to bring it up.  </p><p>Days stretch into weeks, and it becomes routine. Routine gets comfortable, almost normal. </p><p>Until the nightmares begin, that is. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Noctis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Oh </em> <em>  Kim baby, you don’t know what you’re in for.  </em> </p><p>The voice jolts him to the bone, imagined lips curling in mockery. There is pain behind the eyes, and the deep rumble of something disturbing settling across his chest. It wants him to choke. </p><p><b> Tell him again. I don’t think he understands. </b> </p><p>A second voice, this one wheedling and raspy, evoking the feeling just after you’ve screamed your throat raw. Dull recognition fills his senses as he opens his eyes and sees void. </p><p>Kim Kitsuragi knows this isn’t consciousness. It’s something worse. </p><p><em> You don’t believe in  </em> <em> fairytales </em> <em> , do  </em> <em> ya </em> <em> , four-eyes? Maybe that’s for the better. No escape from reality. </em> </p><p><b> He's always been a realist, this one. Funny, given how he’s latched onto our Harry. </b> </p><p> <em> Our Harry indeed. He belongs here, with us. With the base emotions. There’s nothing good in him once you break him down.  </em> </p><p>Kim turns his head, hoping to orient himself in the subconscious. Instead, there is only thick, inky blackness and the sickening crunch of meat, bones cracking in two. It reminds him of the one time he was allowed out on an excursion from the orphanage and was led to the zoo by a bored Doloresian nun.  He was a curious child, and had lingered in front of all the exhibits but one.</p><p>That crocodile was a wizened, leathery caricature of the pictures he knew from his encyclopaedia, and the way it sank its jaws into the leg of beef had haunted his nightmares for weeks after. </p><p><b> Oh! He's a fast one! Identified  </b> <b> <em> you </em> </b> <b>  </b> <b> first time around!  </b> </p><p>The voice leaps with delight. It’s like the scraping of nails on chalkboards, and Kim lifts what he thinks are his hands against his ears.  </p><p><b> Figured out what I am yet? </b> </p><p>“No. Don’t make me guess.” The words tumble out of his mouth much to his surprise. Or maybe he doesn’t even say it out loud. It doesn’t seem to matter in this landscape- the other two seem to pick up his thoughts with enough ease. </p><p><em> It’d do you well to acquaint yourself with our titles.  </em> A dull laugh, like a hiss of air escaping a tire, echoes around him.  <em> What use is visiting a kingdom without paying respects to the ru</em><em>ler? </em> </p><p>“Fuck all.” </p><p><b> I like his zeal! But aren’t you tired? Don’t you want to lay your body down and let the ocean wash over it?  </b> <b> You know what happens to corpses two days in the water. </b> </p><p><em> You’ve seen so much death. What’s one more, darling? I promise this one won’t hurt a bit. </em> </p><p>He finds it difficult to find his tongue in his mouth. It’s unnaturally dry, hard to navigate. He knows the answer before he even asks the question. </p><p>“Who. Who’s death.” </p><p><b> Why, it’s HIS! </b>  </p><p>The darkness fades into the balcony of the Whirling-in-Rags.  </p><p> </p><p>Kim watches a version of himself light a cigarette. It isn’t his usual brand, and the smoke that curls in thick wisps around his otherself’s legs smells like apricots and incense. It seems inoffensive at first, but it is sweet and cloying enough to remind him of the putrid-honey scent of decay. The man that isn’t him flicks the ashes off the balcony with a faint hint of ennui, and sighs before adjusting his (not-his) glasses and turning to Kim. </p><p>It isn’t quite like staring in the mirror, not in the normal sense. There’s the disturbing fact that usually your reflection doesn’t move without you attached to it, or that this new version of him was more like a description of an old friend than solid flesh and blood.  Not-Kitsuragi flashes a quick smile very unlike anything Kim has ever seen his own face do, and strokes the beginning of a five-o'clock-shadow thoughtfully. </p><p>“It’s good to see you again, <em>bratan</em>.” </p><p>“I don’t think we’ve ever met.” </p><p>The man sighs and takes off his glasses. “No, I don’t think we had the pleasure. Not during my lifetime, anyway.” </p><p>It hits Kim like a freight train, and he backs away rapidly until the metal of the railing bites into his palms. The stranger shifts in the shadows and steps out as Lely.  </p><p>There’s an unnatural tint in his eyes, the blue clouded over by death, but otherwise he looks better than any state Kim had seen him in. He’s still in Kitsuragi’s clothes, and they are comically small on him- he looks over them and shrugs, melting into a comfortable fur coat instead. He drops the glasses from his right hand over the railing, where they hit the snow with a dull, abnormal crunch. </p><p>“I’m not the one here for you, ‘though I should be.” He seems amused by the fear in the lieutenant’s eyes. “The other one didn’t frighten so easily. Asked questions, even.” </p><p>“We.” Kim starts, and fights the urge to curl up and die like the voice whispering in his ear is suggesting. “We solved your case. It’s over between us. I don’t owe you anything” </p><p>“Kim, baby. You don’t even know how much of your soul you’ve bargained with already.” Lely has the gall to look disappointed with him. “THEY know. The old reptile and that what makes your skin crawl and your lip curl like a rabid dog.” He spits the cigarette butt from the corner of his mouth, not with any particular disdain. It is simply an action. </p><p>The lieutenant finds it difficult to meet his eyes. They’re disconcerting enough as they are, the soft cataract of expiration blooming in the mottled black of his pupils, but what he finds more difficult to get over is how they see right through him. He knows that this conversation is merely a formality, a dead man paying his dues to the one who put him to ‘rest’. It takes a long pause, but he steels himself and raises his gaze. </p><p>“I have. Some questions.” His speech is clumsy, faltering. The other man shrugs.  </p><p>“Shoot.” </p><p>“I’ve been hearing voices recently. Ever since that case with...” </p><p>“With me?” He smirks. “Are you sure you have the right person? I’m not the one who did this to you. I’m just another body.” </p><p>“Just answer the damn question.” </p><p>“You didn’t ask one. Although I know what it is.” </p><p>Kim grits his teeth. “Cooperate.” </p><p>“I can only answer so much that you already know.” There’s a bite to his smile, wider than what would be reassuring. “After all, this is <em>your </em>subconsciousness.” </p><p>There’s a finality there. A stillness. Lely turns to look over the edge of the balcony, and when Kim meets his eyes again, he’s a different person entirely. </p><p>Harrier Du Bois shrugs off the fur coat from Lely’s shoulders and turns it inside out. In a bout of impeccable dream-logic, the other side turns out to be his infamous disco-ass blazer. Still in shock from seeing two (two!) men turn into other people, Kim cannot help but feel the slightest hint of relief that it’s now Harry and not something fucked up. </p><p>That doesn’t last long. </p><p>This Harry doesn’t attempt to start a conversation, or even acknowledge him at all. He stands in the corner, leaning against the rails, with a blank face set with a grim resignation and profound sadness. Kim opens his mouth to say something, but it doesn’t even register. The detective pulls out the packet of cigarettes- there is only one left –and then seems to think the better of it.  </p><p><b> This one doesn’t even know you’re here! </b> </p><p>The hiss of the Other One raises the hairs on the back of Kim’s neck. There’s no sensation, no acrid breath panting into his nape, but it fills him with a shameful anger he cannot understand. He suddenly hates this voice and all it stands for, all the animalistic pleasures of the flesh he’d worked so hard all his life to tame.  </p><p><em> Easy now, little bird, before the cat gets you after all.  </em> </p><p>Or snake, he reasons. The lieutenant decides to shift his focus back to Harry and tries his best to ignore the ghost-touches of scaly hands on his arms and shoulders. </p><p>He looks so surprisingly <em>solid </em>, it takes a lot of effort to not reach out and rest his hand against the small of his back. </p><p>Kim is only human. He lets his mind wander sometimes and is less and less surprised these days when his thoughts turn to Harry. Ever since the voices appeared, he’s felt a warm flow of affection between them, punctuated by more intense emotions.  </p><p>That isn’t the point though. He was getting distracted. He meant to say- </p><p>This version of Harry is cold, the line between them severed. There’s nothing there. </p><p>It’s not his Harry. </p><p>The simple conclusion brings the hot sting of tears to his eyes, overwhelmed by the fact that this orchestration is simply a product of nightmare and not the next step to whatever’s been happening in his head. It isn’t real. </p><p><b> Are you quite sure? Finished all your detective work? Dotted the I's in your  </b> <b> file </b> <b> ? </b> </p><p><em> You should know better by now </em> <em> , baby </em> <em> .  </em> </p><p>Not-Harrier shrugs off his jacket. There’s something in the motion that alarms Kim all of a sudden, and he surges forward from where Lely had cornered him. He doesn’t react fast enough, or maybe the others are right and Harry can’t see him or hear him- but he blinks and the end of the detective’s Villiers is already at his temple.  </p><p>The lieutenant doesn’t find the breath to scream as his partner falls over the balcony edge. </p><p>----- </p><p>“Cause of death?” </p><p>“Suicide.” </p><p>Kim stares at the ground at his feet, the yellowed, pale grass struggling in patches of frost. It’s midwinter, a miserable time to be outdoors. The tree is the same as before, but the fence is whole and both he and his partner huff about climbing over it on the way back.  </p><p>The people in town are pleasant enough; he supposes they pity him.  </p><p>The BODY is of a man in his mid-forties and recognition tugs at the back of the lieutenant’s mind. He regards the feeling as an odd quirk, and two hours later is driving back to the 57th on his own.  </p><p>The feeling of following the wrong hunch doesn’t disappear. The body is buried in a shallow grave near the airfields two weeks later. Life goes on as it always had. </p><p><b> Won’t you ever learn </b> <b> ? </b>  <b> I</b><b>t’s only a matter of time.  </b> </p><p><em> We’ll be back for you, darling, don’t you sweat it. </em> </p><p>Kim Kitsuragi wakes with a start, tears streaming down his face. </p><p>----- </p><p>It takes him twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling to give up trying to go back to sleep. The digital alarm clock on his nightstand is getting on his nerves, INLAND EMPIRE denouncing it paranoid. God. When did he start thinking of these voices as not himself? By Occam’s razor it should have been clear that they couldn’t be anything else but delusions of a workaholic with sleep problems and recent traumatic head injury. He shivers, the pool of sweat under him now leeching heat. Counting to ten under his breath, Kim turns on the light by his bed and sits up in a sudden, jerky motion.  </p><p>Four A.M. and the beginnings of dawn peek through the blinds. His thoughts turn to the nightmare that woke him, and there’s a dull ache in his chest as he thinks of the worst of it. As real as all his other mind-companions seem to be, he doesn’t want to accept whatever it was that was speaking to him in his dreams. He’s heard Harry mention his own nightmares with a sort of grim resignation.  </p><p><em> Oh, </em><em>dreamless sleep. </em>  </p><p>Kim decides fuck it; he needs to get out of his flat. He gets dressed methodically and nudges on his shoes before packing the bare minimum he’d need for work and locking the door behind him. The sun hasn’t yet risen and there’s dew on the window of the Kineema. He almost unlocks the car door but stops himself, the metal of the handle sticking against his ungloved hand; Kim decides it’ll do him better to walk it off. Running to his car for comfort gets embarrassing after it happens more than once, and he doesn’t want to think about the last time. Not right now, anyway. </p><p>The streets are quiet, this time of day a twilight zone between partygoers scurrying in the dark and commuters drifting between bus stops. He walks without purpose or direction, peering into lifeless café windows and shopfronts layered with dust and sun-bleached produce. It isn’t a surprise when he finds himself rounding into the precinct.  </p><p>“Like a homing pigeon,” he sighs to himself and greets the night shift crew before setting up at his desk. He takes out his notebook, leafing through the pages, looking for a distraction.  </p><p>The distraction does come, but not in the form of an old case. Instead it waltzes in in a garish tie, coffee in-hand, and stumbles at the sight of him. </p><p>“Kim!” Harry manages to catch the edge of a table and deftly saves his coffee. “If I knew you were coming in early, I would have gotten two...” </p><p>“Oh. Khm. I didn’t know I was coming in myself.”  </p><p>“Here,” Harrier hands him the cup. “You look frozen to the bone. Nice February we’re having...” </p><p>The lieutenant accepts the hot drink gratefully and furrows his brow. “I’m pretty sure we’re in April.” </p><p>“Right.” He bites his lip and falls silent. “I knew that.” </p><p>“Sure you did, Harry.” The name rolls intimately off his tongue. </p><p><em> You’ll have to forgive  </em> <em> him, </em> <em>  his ENCYCLOPAEDIA hasn’t woken up yet... </em> </p><p>The voice smirks at the edge of his perception with the tell-tale lilt of EMPATHY. Kim frowns inwardly, puzzled by the proclamation. <em> His  </em>encyclopaedia? No matter, there’s hot, black coffee in his hand and a partner waiting to start the day. The detective watches him curiously from across their shared desk. </p><p>“Lay it on me.” Kim bites. </p><p>“Well. We have a case.” </p><p>Now <em> that’s </em> a distraction. He rolls his shoulders and the shadows of the previous night fall back into just unpleasant memory. It’s something to think about later. </p><p>“Is that why you’re here this early?”  </p><p>“No.” Harry looks pained. “I’ve been coming in at 6 every morning since we got back. Feel I owe Jean as much, for all the paperwork he’s filled out for me in the past.” </p><p>“That’s...” Kim clears his throat, not-his voice clamouring to speak for him, “That’s noble of you.” </p><p>“As if. Just say I'm a bastard and go. Everyone else does.” He smiles softly and claps Kim on the shoulder. “Let’s get on with it before they assign it to someone else.” </p><p>“We’re in no danger of that, I assure you.” </p><p>“Let’s make a start, anyway.” Harry presses on, piling files on the desk. </p><p>“I’m not disagreeing, but why the rush? Tell me about this case, then.” </p><p><em> He’s stalling, he’s distracting, he wants to tempt you into it </em> <em> ,  </em>RHETORIC pipes up. Harry twitches imperceptibly and all it takes is a flicker of AUTHORITY, a testy eyebrow, and he crumbles. </p><p>“I’m just- I'm worried about you, Kim.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “You’re so by-the-book and ordered, you wouldn’t come in this early without reason. I know it’s nothing to do with Jean as I saw him last night, and Captain Pryce has been away all week. What’s going on?” </p><p>Now. Now would be the perfect moment to tell him everything.  </p><p>But that doubt creeps in, the years of fearing the unknown, of anyone knowing him to be different in any way. How do you tell someone you have 24 entities – he refuses to think of them as people, they’re not dimensional enough – in your head?  </p><p>(<em>How do you tell someone you’re not interested in women, how your childhood friends turned on you when they found out </em> , COMPOSURE smirks. <em>You’ve done that before. Why is this more difficult? </em>) </p><p>Instead, he does what he does best- sell a half-truth. </p><p>“Bad dreams. Nothing to dwell on.” Kim bites his lip. “We were back in Martinaise.” </p><p>Harry doesn’t push it, just nods. “The TRIBUNAL. Yeah, I still have dreams about that too. Physical therapy on Mondays too.”  </p><p>Kim doesn’t correct him as to the content of his nightmare.  </p><p>Light peeks through the blinds, having finally made it past the first layer of squat Revachol housing. A tannoy announces the end of the night shift. </p><p>“More coffee? Then we can get on with it.” Kim forces a grimace which could be interpreted as a smile and Harry passes him the mug. </p><p>The sun rises over Jamrock, and two detectives start their day the only way they know how- by preparing for war. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading, the next chapter is in the works but will probably take a little while longer than what it took me to upload this one! Hope you enjoyed it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. High Noon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It just doesn’t add up. </p>
<p>“Initial debrief.” Kim pinches the bridge of his nose, compiling a mental plan of action.  </p>
<p>“Two weeks ago, there was a break-in at the art museum in Grand Couron.” Harry wets his lips and continues reading the neat script of the report. “Nothing reported stolen, but all the alarm systems were disabled, and the night guard was nowhere to be seen. They filed a missing person claim with us two days later- I'm pretty sure one of the junior officers was put on that – and thought nothing else of it. Until yesterday.” </p>
<p>“What changed?” </p>
<p>Harry smirks almost imperceptibly, and Kim fights the urge to flash him the eyebrow. He waits for the detective to continue. It’s the first case with Harry as primary since their meeting, and Kim feels AUTHORITY and ESPRIT DE CORPS warring inside at the notion. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the man- of course he does, he admires him greatly, and technically Harrier<em>  is </em> his superior officer- it just takes a lot for the lieutenant to relinquish control, especially when he’s being goaded like this. </p>
<p>It’s harmless teasing, Harry amping up his flair for the dramatic as he pretends to read from the file. Well, when he says pretends... </p>
<p><em> Let’s just say there’d be a lot less information there without our input,  </em>VISUAL CALCULUS admits. Kim sighs and motions him to continue. </p>
<p>“Apparently, one of the paintings was hanging askew.” The detective sips at his coffee, eyes wide and innocent. “The museum staff went to fix it, only to have their hands come away slick with paint. You know, it can take weeks for oil paint to fully dry...” He pauses thoughtfully. </p>
<p>“So, it’s a fake?” </p>
<p>“Could be. The guard turned up last night- he's fine, was away visiting family somewhere with piss poor signal and had no idea about the whole ordeal.” </p>
<p>“Or so he claims. Do we know why he didn’t show up for his shift?” </p>
<p>“Not yet. Although... Hm, the shift scheduling system is automatic, sent out every fortnight. We’ll have to check if someone tampered with it when we go to talk to him.” </p>
<p>“Legwork it is. Why was it assigned to us, then?” </p>
<p>Harry smiles for real this time, a toothy grin meant just for the lieutenant. Kim feels a blush creeping up under his collar, the tips of his ears pink. The detective’s complete and undivided attention can be a little intense at times.  </p>
<p>“I’ve been told I was somewhat of an art expert before my memories waltzed off. Also- something about old stomping grounds? That security guard lives not too far from here, on the way to the Harbour.” </p>
<p>“All roads lead to Martinaise...” Kitsuragi shakes his head. Of course. “That’s quite a drive to Couron.” </p>
<p>“Not many jobs out here, I s’pose.” </p>
<p>CONCEPTUALISATION interrupts the exchange, a shopping-list of actions finding their way into Kim’s head. </p>
<ul>
<li>TALK TO MUSEUM STAFF (0/2) </li>
<li>CHECK OUT MUSEUM IN GRAND COURON </li>
<li>EAT BREAKFAST </li>
</ul>
<p>He blinks and it’s gone, leaving behind an imprint not unlike the blurred shapes that cloud vision after looking directly at the sun. He feels a little dazed, bristling at being told what to do by an entity residing in his brain, and is grateful when Harry brushes his hands against his trousers and stands up with purpose. </p>
<p>“We should interview the nightguard and the staff member- I'm pretty sure they’re a docent - and head over to the museum. I’ll ask the junior previously on the missing person case to look up any similar inquiries, or in general information on smuggling rings operating out of Revachol.” </p>
<p>There’s the can opener he knows and loves, Kim muses as he throws on his jacket. They work well these days, better than the ‘old married couples’, partnerships spanning decades. It’s only been a few months, but he supposes it’s all a matter of communication, and what better way than being able to read your partner directly? </p>
<p>Kim’s not sure how he comes to that conclusion, but it is increasingly more obvious that Harry functions much the same way he does nowadays, and if anything has been dealing with it for far longer than Kim. The lieutenant’s voices sometimes reference Harry’s, and he finds himself able to listen in if he concentrates hard enough, although the fact scares him more than he cares to admit. He still doesn’t want to bring it up, however, not sure how to start that conversation. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to work both ways- or maybe the detective has more tact than to accuse him on spying on his thoughts.  </p>
<p><em> That’d be a first, the man has all the tact of </em><em>an overgrown puppy.  </em> </p>
<p>Kim shakes his head fondly despite the interruption. </p>
<p>“Detective.” He turns to Harry. “How about some breakfast?” </p>
<p>Harry breaks out an infectious grin. “As long as you don’t mind crumbs in your Kineema.” </p>
<p>Kim, of course, does mind, but he’s hungry enough to forgive anything. </p>
<p>----- </p>
<p>An hour later, they find themselves leisurely cruising down to Grand Couron, alternating between Speedfreaks FM and an independent station that Harry swears plays all the best throwback disco (Kim is not convinced, but as Harry puts it, “shotgun gets to choose the music” so he gets little say in the matter.).  </p>
<p>The case at hand is a welcome break from their usual dealings with homicides and assault charges, and the atmosphere is light, almost playful. Harry babbles about art, gesturing wildly with a croissant. Every so often, he reaches across and Kim takes a bite.  </p>
<p>“We are so fucking efficient.”  </p>
<p>“Mm.” Kim swallows, pastry sticking to his lips. “Watch the crumbs.” </p>
<p>“I am, and they’re landing on the floor.” Harry updates him cheerfully. Kim shoots him a look, eyebrow hovering. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Grand Couron itself is a contradiction, sky-high towers of limestone and glass punctuated by drab residential blocks. The art museum stands on the west side of a lush, green plaza, surrounded by banks, leaning towards the river. Harry whistles lowly. </p>
<p>“Feels like a different country.” </p>
<p>Kim nods, distaste curling his lips. “They’d like to pretend it is. Separate themselves entirely from the rest of Revachol.” </p>
<p>“You’re gonna have to clue me in.” The detective shuffles his feet self-consciously. “I’m afraid this is another one of the holes in my brain.” </p>
<p>“Not to worry.”  </p>
<p>“I hate it, sometimes.” Harry looks miserable for a moment. “I must come off so naïve.” </p>
<p>Kim shakes his head at that. “And other times?” </p>
<p>“Well. I suppose it’s nice to get a second chance. Or third. Or fourth, depending on who you ask.” He bites his lip. “Therapy’s been helpful too.” </p>
<p>“Maybe you’ve just never been to Grand Couron.” </p>
<p>“Maybe. That could be it, yeah.” </p>
<p>Kim turns, looking over the river. It’s a pretty enough view, but it turns his stomach to think of the slums on the other side of it, the failed housing projects sitting squat, out of sight, sanitised for the ones fortunate enough to have the time to stroll along here. </p>
<p>“I don’t think you’re missing out on anything worthwhile.” </p>
<p>“Not in this lifetime, no.”  </p>
<p>The detective casts a longing look across the water, the waves shimmering in the mid-morning sun. He moves to join Kim.  </p>
<p>They stand side by side, watching the crests crash against the concrete barrier as a boat passes. The light reflecting from the foam casts fluid shadows across Kim’s face, his glasses catching like quicksilver. Harry draws in a breath. He looks away, face carefully neutral. </p>
<p><em> He’s </em><em>oh-so-</em><em>easy to read.  </em> <em> H</em><em>e’s thinking of taking off your glasses to see your eyes shine in the light</em><em>, </em>EMPATHY purrs. <em>He’d never ask, though.  </em> </p>
<p><em> Put on a show, Kimball.  </em>ELECTROCHEMISTRY joins in chorus. </p>
<p>Kim freezes. He’s feeling daring, adrenaline coursing still from the night before. With a practiced motion, he plucks the glasses from the bridge of his nose and innocently makes as if to wipe them with the handkerchief he keeps in his front pocket, tilting his jaw towards the detective.  </p>
<p>Harry lets out a small noise. He steps forward and- </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Excuse me, detectives?” </p>
<p>They turn around abruptly, and Kim clears his throat. </p>
<p>Standing in front of them is the staff member mentioned in the report. He looks younger than expected, fresh out of finishing school, his face framed by his shirt collar and choppy, dark hair. He has that same cultivated pristineness of the surrounding buildings, and it leaves a bad taste in Kim’s mouth. He berates himself for the bias but can’t help but dislike the kid. </p>
<p>“Lieutenants Du Bois and Kitsuragi, at your service.” Harry rushes through introductions, clasping his hands in a brief greeting.   </p>
<p>“Sy Caruso. I’m a docent here, got a call last night that I should be expecting some officers.” He sours slightly. </p>
<p>“Docent... I did tell you, Kim.” Harry glances at the lieutenant and back to Sy. “Lead the way then.”  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s nearing midday, sunbeams catching on dust particles as they pass the exhibits and make their way to the archives. Sy takes them through the polished halls, casting wayward glances at the occasional visitor, gesturing to the odd sculpture or painting. He sounds almost bored, tone flat from hours of repetition.  </p>
<p>“We have some questions, if you don’t mind doing it now.” Harry starts, half-step behind the man and occasionally weaving around a particularly wide gesture.  </p>
<p>“Can we do that later?” The kid snaps.  </p>
<p>Kim’s really starting to dislike him, half a mind to take over from Harry as Bad Cop. It’d take a furrow of his brow or flash of teeth and AUTHORITY would send him cowering, tail between his legs. Harry shoots the lieutenant a warning look. <em> Don’t you dare,  </em> <em> not ye </em> <em> t. </em> </p>
<p> <em> “Sure.  </em>Let’s see this painting then.” His tone is falsely pleasant; Kim knows the detective well enough to tell when he’s working his Gym Teacher know-how. Usually it only comes out when they’re dealing with some adolescent delinquents (Kim usually hangs back for those, lets Harry handle it), but when it comes to snobby sons of local businessmen the method seems much the same. </p>
<p><em> You’re welcome for that </em><em>ti</em><em>db</em><em>it</em>,  PERCEPTION hums softly.<em> It’s obvious by the way he carries himself, this </em><em>isn’t </em><em>a job </em><em>he</em><em> got </em><em>on his own</em><em>.There’s no passion here</em><em>. </em>  </p>
<p>What the hell, at least now they have some leverage. He can tell by the way Harry eyes the kid’s signet ring that he’s come to the same conclusion. </p>
<p>There’s a white noise hum that accompanies the detective, almost-legible if he concentrates, stronger when working a case. Once again, Kim wonders if he ‘sounds’ like that to Harry.  </p>
<p>“We’re here.” Sy shrugs off a lanyard and produces a key, unlocking the door to the archives. “We moved the painting here to make it easier to inspect. As it turns out, our archivist is away on sick leave.” He makes a face, can-you-believe-it, and turns the handle. It sticks a little, and he moves to press his weight against the doorframe.  </p>
<p> “Sick leave, you say...” Kim flips open his notebook. “Who handles the art in their absence?”  </p>
<p>“I suppose the conservator.”  </p>
<p>“Name?” </p>
<p>“Ugh.” He waves his hand dismissively. “She’s not gonna want to talk to you.” </p>
<p>“That’ll be for us to find out.” Harry interjects, crossing his arms. “Do you have a name?” </p>
<p>“Jelena. I’m not sure about her surname, though.” </p>
<p>Kim jots it down. “Why do you think she won’t want to talk?”  </p>
<p>The kid shrugs. “She’s kinda frigid. Weird. Always hanging around with the artists. All quiet-like otherwise.” </p>
<p>Enemy of my enemy is my friend, Kim smiles to himself.     </p>
<p>The door finally gives with a pulpy groan, startling all three of them.  </p>
<p>“It’s just along here, on one of the benches.” Sy drags his fingers along the wall, flicking on switches. Fluorescent bulbs fizz to life, casting long, bleak shadows in their wake.  </p>
<p>The painting in question is glorious, all gilded leaf and blue. It’s a scene presenting the first Innocence, the Pernikarnassian, gold flowing out of his mouth as in all depictions of him. There are faint specks of damage on one side. A smudge. </p>
<p>Harry stands back, suddenly silent, and squats until he’s at eye level with the bench. Kim assumes it’s just his VISUAL CALCULUS being put to work and instead turns to the kid. </p>
<p>“What can you tell me about it?” </p>
<p>“About the original, you mean?” Sy frowns. “About 300... 350?... years old, artist unknown. Uh, survived the revolution in someone’s bunker, which means virtually undamaged. Real gold leaf. That’s about it, unless you’re here for a lecture on the presence of Innocences in art.” </p>
<p>Kim rears up at the dismissive tone, his notetaking pointedly sharper. “I take it you found it askew and called us in?” </p>
<p>“I found it, yeah. And it wasn’t askew, it was off the wall completely.” He pouts. “But it was the head of staff who called you in. Told me to talk to you.” </p>
<p>  “Name?” </p>
<p>“You and your names... Harue Taneka. I think.” </p>
<p>He’s beginning to lose his patience, the kid worming under his skin. Kim knows it doesn’t show on his face, but still feels a pang of weakness when he snaps. </p>
<p>“You don’t know?” </p>
<p>“I don’t see them often. I usually deal with the archivist and the general public.” </p>
<p>  “Anyway. Can you tell us anything about the discovery, then?” </p>
<p>“I was about to leave. I guess I was one of the last people out? I usually store my stuff in here, as the general cloakroom gets busy.” He gestures at a desk off to the side, with a rack of hangers just above. “Anyway, the way out of here is through the galleries I showed you on the way in. It doesn’t take a genius to notice a painting off the wall, and with our recent security scares I called it in.” </p>
<p>“You didn’t touch it?”  </p>
<p>“I’m not stupid.” Sy huffs. “I’m not about to get blamed for any fall damage. I left it as it was until Jelena crawled out of her nest and told us what to do.” </p>
<p>“Us?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, the new security guard and me. Old one was fired, once he turned up.” </p>
<p>“Right.” Kim adjusts his glasses. “We might need you to give us some more details later on. Thank you for your cooperation.” </p>
<p>Harry is still on his knees, inspecting the frame, so the lieutenant moves past the kid and back into the galleries. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It doesn’t take long for him to find the Innocences, a room full of portraits and battle scenes. There’s an auspiciously blank wall in one of the alcoves, seemingly the home of the Pernikarnassian.  </p>
<p><em> Interesting,  </em> VISUAL CALCULUS muses. <em>This seems a little... out of the way. Would you be able to see </em><em>a fallen painting if you were just passing by? </em> </p>
<p>A flurry of angles and distances momentarily blinds Kim, then a pale green tinge at the edge of his vision. </p>
<p>No. The alcove is too deep for anyone to see into from the side. He was in here for another reason. Wandering the halls after hours, the new security hire inexperienced in their rounds... </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“There’s something off here.” </p>
<p>Kim startles. Harry steps out from behind him, tone hushed and confidential. The man has some serious SAVOIR FAIRE about him at times, it has to be said.  </p>
<p>“I think so too. Between the report not adding up to the witness account, and the missing employees...” He trails off, indicating the space on the wall. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think this area is visible from the corridor.” </p>
<p>Harry moves back into the doorway and stretches his arm directly in front of him in a straight line. “I’d say you’re probably right on that.” </p>
<p>“Not only that,” Kim sighs and flips through his notes. “I don’t fully understand why the RCM was called in in the first place. Nothing is officially missing, and the security guard was found after our junior went through some details with the museum staff last week.” </p>
<p>Harry nods thoughtfully. “It was outlined as urgent when I received the brief from the designee, but I didn’t manage to get a reason why.” </p>
<p>“From what I know of similar places, the precinct gets notified whenever the security systems are activated. That’s what happened two weeks ago, when the systems suddenly went down.”  </p>
<p>“We have that kind of technology?” Harry looks impressed.   </p>
<p>“Anything, if you can afford it. Between that and the missing persons, it could have been flagged as more than a routine check.” Kim closes his notebook and turns to the detective. “Find out anything about the painting?” </p>
<p>“Oh, right.” Harry shuffles closer. “It didn’t fall off the wall, unsurprisingly, there was no damage to the frame...”  </p>
<p>He looks at his feet and reddens. Kim stays silent.  </p>
<p>“You’re gonna laugh at this, but it told me it’s the real deal.” </p>
<p>Khm.   </p>
<p>“It told you?” </p>
<p>“Yeah.” Harry bites his lip. “I actually know the name of the painter now too...” </p>
<p>Kim considers this. A couple months ago, he had accepted the detective’s unconventional methods in his stride and chalked up admissions like these to withdrawal symptoms and/or brain damage. They made the right links along the way, followed Harry’s hunches, and solved the case. Now, he isn’t so sure what to make of it. </p>
<p>He settles on what feels right in his gut. “I believe you.” </p>
<p>Harry visibly relaxes. “Right. Thanks, Kim.” </p>
<p>“Well.  At least we’re not dealing with an art heist, not if the real painting is still here. The docent strikes me as somewhat suspicious, though.” </p>
<p>“He’s definitely hiding something. Also, we’re going to have to find out more about this Jelena, that’s for sure.” </p>
<p>“And the mysterious head of staff.”  </p>
<p>“Seems like we have our work cut out for us.” Harry chirps brightly.  </p>
<p>Kim can’t help but let a smile softly tug at the corners of his mouth. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading, I had a lot of fun with this chapter :) Next one up soon!<br/>I was planning something a little different but sometimes the characters just get away from you... Either way, hopefully my case-invention isn't awful. They're good detectives. Let's see where it takes them.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Glow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! Sorry for the wait with this one, I was moving house... not once, but twice. Anyway I didn't have internet for about 2 weeks and accidentally locked myself out of the online word document where i'm writing this. In that time I actually started writing a second story for Harry/Kim and I think I'll be able to post that relatively soon as a one-chapter deal. </p>
<p>I hope you enjoy this continuation- from next chapter there'll be a break from the case and more of the two of them interacting, as well as a little more detail about the voices.<br/>Have a good day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harue Taneka’s name shines a dull copper from the plate on the door. <em>Museum Director. </em>  </p>
<p>“According to Mr Caruso, this is the person who called us in.” Kim adjusts his gloves, then knocks lightly. A rhythmic <em>tap-tap </em> <em> -tap</em>, stern yet polite.  </p>
<p>It takes a moment, but there is the sound of even footsteps on carpet and then the door opens. </p>
<p>“Officers.” </p>
<p>The DIRECTOR is lithe, on the taller side of average, and wonderfully androgynous in the same way a sculpture might be. They reach out a hand in greeting, which Harry bends down to kiss at the same time Kim reaches for a handshake. They collide rather unfortunately; Kim’s fingertips brush against Harry’s cheekbone, causing both men to jump back. The director watches them. There is mild amusement playing on their painted lips.  </p>
<p>Kim manages to compose himself.  </p>
<p>“Khm. I take it you are...” He stumbles on the honorific, not sure which one to opt for. </p>
<p>“Dr Taneka, yes. I believe I spoke to someone from your precinct on the phone?” </p>
<p>“That would have been Jules.” Harry steps in, trying to rescue whatever could be left of a good first impression. </p>
<p>“That sounds about right.” They motion for the detectives to come in, and the door smoothly closes behind them.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The office is light, large windows facing the river. There are a couple of plush leather seats circling a coffee table, and a dark-wood and metal desk set at the edge of the room. Taneka settles in behind it. </p>
<p>Kim shows some initiative and takes one of the seats uninvited, notepad at the ready. </p>
<p>“What can you tell us about the report you made yesterday?” </p>
<p>They smile pleasantly. “Well, I was radioed in by Sy from our Classics wing. He was squawking about one of our most cherished paintings having been <em>vandalised. </em>Can you believe it?” </p>
<p>Harry furrows his brow. “Vandalised?” </p>
<p>“Well yes, it was torn off the wall! I believe I did describe the situation in my report to you. The line was...patchy.” </p>
<p>Kim leans over. “That could explain some of our earlier inconsistencies, half-facts.” </p>
<p>The detective nods and turns towards the director. “Can you describe it again?” </p>
<p>“Part of the painting was swiped with this pungent oil, texture like petroleum jelly. Oh, it was such a mess... Jelena immediately called in our guard to help her move it into the archive, that’s where we conserve our works too... She did such a good job saving it, the varnish was eaten away in several places.” </p>
<p>“Explains the smudging. That’s one mystery solved.” Harry looks pleased at that. </p>
<p>Kim notes down the account. “You were there as well?”  </p>
<p>“Well of course, it’s one of our oldest and most valuable pieces.” Taneka looks almost on the brink of tears. “Oh, they were so careless with it, I though Jelena was going to kill them.” </p>
<p>“Can we get her last name?” Kim looks up from the page, keen to fill in the blanks. </p>
<p>“Oh yes. Jelena Sorokin. She’s been here for what, seven years now? Brilliant, if not a difficult character at times. I mostly leave her be, art is her lifeblood and she knows what she’s doing. Not like that Caruso...” They trail off. </p>
<p>“Any chance we can talk to her?” Harry presses, remembering what the kid had been saying about her reluctance. </p>
<p>The director huffs a surprised laugh. “Oh, you can try.” </p>
<p>Kim continues. It still doesn’t add up to a police report. “What did you expect from us when you called in? The painting is safe, as I understand it.” </p>
<p>“Well.” At this the director motions them closer. “I don’t usually do this sort of thing... Call it following a gut feeling? Surely you get those, detectives?”  </p>
<p>There’s a tense moment, breath held as Kim wonders if they could have him figured out. But then they laugh.  </p>
<p>“I’m pulling your leg. No, Jelena asked me to call, citing ‘suspicious’ circumstances. She wouldn’t ask unless it was important, so I did.” </p>
<p>Kim can’t fault that logic, not with what’s been in his head the last few months. He simply nods. </p>
<p><em> Hey genius, ask them about the shift schedule </em> LOGIC hints heavy-handedly. </p>
<p>Oh, right. <em>Useful  </em>things in his head.  </p>
<p>“How do you schedule your staff?” </p>
<p>Taneka frowns. “The schedule only changes every season or so, which is what made our guard’s sudden holiday so odd.” </p>
<p>“Can we get a name?” Harry interjects, mimicking Kim’s tone from earlier with a sly smile. Kim fights the urge to smile back, caught up in their own performance. </p>
<p>“Of course, officer. The security guard we just let go was Audry Bern. I can get an address for you, although we’re some way from Martinaise. He used to stay over at the motel near here, chalked it up as business expenses... Will you look into the matter?”  </p>
<p>“There are things we’ve noticed that don’t exactly add up. We’ll keep an eye out.” </p>
<p>The detectives thank them, and Kim notes the address next to the name, his handwriting neat as always.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you think we’ll have a chance with Jelena?” Harry turns a corner, rounding back towards the archives. </p>
<p>“She might be willing to speak out against Sy, if their mutual distrust is anything to go on. I have a feeling he wasn’t telling us the whole truth.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The archives are locked by the time they reach the door, both the kid and Jelena nowhere to be found. The lieutenant sighs and readjusts his glasses. All the galleries are busier now, bustling with people from the surrounding district on their lunch break.  </p>
<p><em> Is everything as you remember it? </em> </p>
<p>PERCEPTION crawls by Kim’s senses, sending them into overdrive. The feeling is not unlike an insect walking on naked skin, and he shivers. There’s something different here, a smell that reminds him of tending to his car’s engine. He’s about to make a note of it and move on, but Harry stops in his tracks.  </p>
<p>“Wait.” </p>
<p>The detective sniffs. There’s a wolfish demeanour about him as he drags a slow finger along the hinges of the door; it comes away slick with a bluish oil. </p>
<p><em> Pay attention next time, darling. </em>   </p>
<p>Oh, he intends to. Car engines, hinges, that rainbow sheen- </p>
<p>“Lubricant?” </p>
<p>“The door was stuck before, remember?” Harry raises his hand to his mouth. </p>
<p>Kim can’t help but look on in mild disgust as the detective flicks out his tongue to taste the substance. </p>
<p>“Eck.”  </p>
<p>The lieutenant shoots him a somewhat disapproving frown. “I hope that was worth it.” </p>
<p>“Barely. It’s like you said, lubricant.” He sticks out his tongue unhappily. “One of the staff must have gotten tired of the door squeaking.” </p>
<p>“It could just be a coincidence, but this strikes me as case-relevant.” </p>
<p>Harry nods. “Same as what was on the painting. Call it a feeling, but I’m certain of it.” </p>
<p>“I trust your hunches.” Kim tries the door once more. “Think our luck’s run out here, we’ll have to check back later. Detective?” </p>
<p>“I’m all ready to go.” He pauses, shoves his hands in the pockets of his blazer. “Say Kim, it’d be a shame to waste a trip. Wanna go back towards the river? See the sights?” </p>
<p>Khm.  </p>
<p>Technically, they don’t have to be back at the precinct yet. And maybe Jelena will show up in the time they’re out. </p>
<p>At least those are the excuses that make their way through Kim’s lips as Harry shrugs off his coat in the noon sun, and then he finds himself walking along by his side in companionable silence. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s a beautiful day in Revachol, the blue sky of early spring still cool enough that not many people linger by the waterside. There still are a few others about, and Kim realises with a start it’s a Saturday, having lost track of time after last night's bad dreams.  </p>
<p>This part of the district doesn’t bear the same battle-scars as its neighbouring quarters; all the buildings in sight came to be thanks to the boom years of the thirties and SHIVERS cannot contain its glee at the opportunity to describe the skyline. Kim finds himself parroting the information back to Harry, enjoying the attention, almost-basking in his smile. </p>
<p>It’s getting dangerous, the way he looks at him when he thinks the detective can’t see. The feelings that rise in him on those early mornings at the precinct, after his start-of-the-day coffee and chat with Judit (he refuses to call it ‘gossip’, no matter how much she insists on it) when Harry pokes his head into the break room and calls him out on another case. The long talks in the Kineema. Kim just wants to hold out a little longer without putting a label on it, calling it by a name- giving things names makes them real. He’s never been very good at naming things and <em> keeping </em>  them around, is all.  Especially not with someone , unfortunately, as <em>fragile </em>as Harry <em> . </em>  </p>
<p>Better to not get his hopes up. </p>
<p><em> You're lying to yourself. </em> </p>
<p>Ah, that would be VOLITION rearing its ugly head. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They eventually stop by a footbridge, at which point Harry surprises him by bringing out a pair of binoculars from one of the many pockets on his person.  </p>
<p>“Look.” He bumps shoulders with Kim as he fumbles to press the lenses into his hand. Kim raises them to his face, glasses clacking clumsily. He sounds excited, and it takes Kim a second to realise what he’s pointing at, with the way his hand trembles. </p>
<p>Up on one of the many-windowed blocks, on the rooftop, sits a youth. They’re too far away to make out anything other than the fact they’re dressed in all-black and have a long, gloved arm outstretched against the unforgiving sky. </p>
<p>“A falconer.” Kim breathes, passing the binoculars back to Harry. The detective looks again, and smiles.  </p>
<p>A shadow in the sky circles above them, fleeting and inconsequential. The FALCONER whistles and the dark shape comes soaring. </p>
<p>The distaste that filled his mouth earlier, looking upon these glass towers and overflowing riverbanks, is somewhat subdued.  </p>
<p>Kim is besotted. </p>
<p>“You asked me for a secret about myself, a while back.” He says, words faltering. Harry tilts his head in agreement. </p>
<p>“I did, and you never delivered.” He sighs dramatically, then pauses. “I might ask again sometime.” </p>
<p>The words are said lowly, almost a threat- but the heat behind them is different. </p>
<p>“Well.” Kim feels suddenly childish, confiding in his partner in the middle of the day. He fights the instinct to clear his throat and move on.  “I wanted to be an airship pilot when I was growing up. That freedom... The falconer brought back some memories.” </p>
<p>SHIVERS hums lowly. An airfield on the outskirts of town surrounded by chainlink fencing, the pilots in shining boots and bomber jackets, Ace’s Highs all round. The unmistakable, choking desire to leave everything behind. </p>
<p>Harry catches his eye, encouraging. “Flying has always seemed so... otherworldly, at least to me.” </p>
<p>“It is, in a way. Crossing through the Pale.” </p>
<p>They watch the dark figure a while longer, passing the binoculars between them. Harry briefly produces a small film-camera and aims it at the sky. </p>
<p>That’s new. Documenting his life in case he forgets again? </p>
<p><em> It’s just a hobby.  </em>CONCEPTUALISATION hems and haws. <em>That was an artful shot. You should ask him to show you his collection. </em> </p>
<p>ELECTROCHEMISTRY jeers at that.<em> Easy, tiger. Finding out the man’s got a sensitive side get your motor running?  </em> </p>
<p>Oh, shut up. Kim runs his fingers through his hair and turns his attention back to watching the person on the roof.  </p>
<p>But then again- collection? Khm. </p>
<p>“Suppose they’re one of the Skulls?” Harry muses, breaking the silence. </p>
<p>“Perhaps.” </p>
<p>“There’s something so disco about them.” He shakes his head fondly. “Too bad I’m too old to join.” </p>
<p>“You’d put them all to shame with your delinquency, I’m sure.”  </p>
<p>“I have the dress code down already.” He winks. </p>
<p>Kim checks his watch. </p>
<p>“Sure you do, Fuck the World. We should see if Jelena is around.” </p>
<p>“Sounds like a plan.” He bares his teeth, ghost of the Expression haunting his face. “Lead the way, Lieutenant.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>----- </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Walking into the museum, they are greeted by a scowling woman in a shock-pink suit. Harry beams at her- finally, someone as garish as him. The CONSERVATOR.  </p>
<p>“Jelena Sorokin?” Kim ventures, reaching for a pen. </p>
<p> “That’s me.” She looks uncomfortable out in the open, eyes skirting between the two of them. She smooths down the front of her blazer nervously.  </p>
<p><em> Not used to being all dressed up </em> <em> , </em>  EMPATHY whispers.   <em> She’d be happier in some </em><em>messy </em><em>overalls and a </em><em>‘ </em> <em> Man from Hjelmdall </em> <em> ’ </em><em>t-shirt. She’s trying to make a good </em><em>impression, to get you to take her seriously. </em>  </p>
<p><em> She’s got something to say. </em> </p>
<p>She steps forward to meet them. “Can we do this outside?” </p>
<p>“No problem.” Harry turns on his heel and follows her out.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They find a bench along the riverside a little further than the bridge, and Jelena sits, motioning for them to join her. Kim decides to stay standing. </p>
<p>“Why not in there?” </p>
<p>“I quite like my job.” She speaks with a prominent Messina accent, rounding her vowels and sharpening plosives on her tongue. “I’d like to keep it.”  </p>
<p>“Who’s out to get you?” Harry interrupts, slinging his arm round the back of the bench. She shies away from the action, something in her curled like a box-spring ready to burst. </p>
<p>She continues, ignoring the question.  </p>
<p>“I was called in to assess the damage after Caruso found that ‘His Honour’ wasn’t where we expected.”  </p>
<p>“’His Honour’?” Kim ventures.  </p>
<p>“Title of the piece, unofficial of course. I spend a lot of time with the paintings, look after them, end up giving them nicknames...” </p>
<p>“Talk to them?” Harry interjects, matter-of-fact. </p>
<p>“No.” She blinks, confused. “I’m a conservator, not a psychic. Or whoever it is that talks to objects.” </p>
<p>Kim clears his throat surreptitiously, but Harry is off on another tangent. </p>
<p>“A superstar detective. Which one’s your favourite?” </p>
<p>“Favourite what?” </p>
<p>“Artwork? Painting? Sculpture?” </p>
<p>“Oh.” She looks bewildered, thrown off whatever she was prepared to talk about. “I suppose ‘Our Alien Lady’. That’s the Dolores Dei portrait we have with her outlined in green- it was originally gold, but the varnish turned bad. As it was damaged in the revolution, we can’t clean it up the usual way-” </p>
<p>“Shall we get back to the case at hand?” Kim pinches the bridge of his nose in mild annoyance.  </p>
<p>“Right.” Harry visibly deflates. Jelena looks sheepish, as if being reprimanded, then carries on. </p>
<p>“As I was saying. The painting had not fallen from the wall, the frame was intact, as were the hangers. I noticed something shiny in the corner, some fingerprints- that was the oil, it had damaged the top layers of paint and varnish. We took it back to the archive after that.” </p>
<p>“The archive is on the other side of the gallery, why there?”  </p>
<p>“I have my workshop through in one of the backrooms- my nest.” She doesn’t quite smile but her expression softens.  </p>
<p>“Sy mentioned something about a nest.” </p>
<p>“Oh, him. He hates me ever since I turned him down for drinks last year.” Jelena looks tired.  “Whatever he’s said about me, it isn’t true.” </p>
<p>“Yeah.” Harry nods. “We were told you’d be reluctant to talk to us, and here you are, escorting us outdoors.” </p>
<p>She wrings her hands in her lap. “You’re... not exactly wrong about there being someone out to get me. Well... It started a few months back but only got bad last month, with supplies going missing, but only those belonging to me. I share the archives with the archivist and a couple of archival assistants, and they all keep some belongings around. For all the splendour of Grand Couron, I have to buy these things out of pocket so yeah, you do kind of notice if they disappear. It wasn’t obvious, but containers would be half-empty by the time I got round to them or I’d be missing brushes or elements of frames... Seemingly at random.”  </p>
<p>She smooths the front of her blazer. “Then Audry disappeared out of the blue, and it stopped. I actually felt kind of bad- I blamed Sy before, thought he was messing with me. I thought that was why only my things were vanishing. That is, until I got a note.” </p>
<p>“What did it say?” Kim steps closer. </p>
<p>“It was vaguely threatening- something to keep my nose out of things if I knew what was good for me, or whatever. Asshole. I threw it out. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but it felt more like a sick joke than an actual threat.” </p>
<p>The lieutenant sighs but aims to move on. “I suppose the note would have helped, but no matter. What were you working on at the time?” </p>
<p>“Well that’s exactly why I pushed the director to call things in yesterday- I was restoring the gold leaf on the Pernikarnassian the week the note appeared and had told the director about someone having at my supplies. I can forgive some chemicals, but it gets a little pricey.” She makes a face. “Anyway, I got suspicious once I heard about Sy tampering with the painting, and doubly so when it was damaged.” </p>
<p>“The supplies you mention- any chance they were the same that you were using to restore the painting?” Harry leans in, a gleam in his eye. </p>
<p><em> There’s that art degree </em>, CONCEPTUALISATION whispers. Kim purses his lips and notes it down. </p>
<p>“Now that you mention it. I suppose so. I chalked it up to being whatever was closest at hand, but that would resolve some of the more random elements.” </p>
<p>“Hm. Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch if necessary.” </p>
<p>The detective stands from the bench and reaches out a hand in farewell. Jelena pauses, then shakes it. </p>
<p>“I’d like to say I hope there’s nothing amiss.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>----- </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Later, back in the Kineema on the way to Jamrock, the two detectives exchange theories. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Conflicting information, timelines we haven’t established, and a suspicious lack of crime for a police investigation.” Harry summarises. Kim nods. </p>
<p>“A little tame for Revachol, no?” </p>
<p>“That’s what’s bothering me too. Haven’t seen any drugs in the last twelve hours.” He smirks somewhat. </p>
<p>EMPATHY has something to say.<em>Humour as a means of protection</em><em>. Typical. </em> </p>
<p>Kim stays silent, trying to come up with something to say.  </p>
<p><em> Harry, you don’t need drugs to be a good detective. Harry, you’ve been doing so well the last few months. Harry, how’s your therapist </em> <em> ? Harry, when did you first start hearing the Voices? Do you have them in your dreams? When do they become part of you? </em> </p>
<p> Instead, he grips the steering wheel a little tighter with his gloved hands and stares straight ahead. </p>
<p>The detective cracks a little, his supranatural senses picking up the tension. “Bad joke. Sorry.”  </p>
<p>“Not at all.” </p>
<p>Harrier fiddles with the dials on the radio. He calls in Jules to let him know how everything is progressing, and a chorus of 41st precinct regulars joins from the other side of the line to give him a hard time about ‘prancing about in art galleries again’, as one of them skilfully puts it. It’s good-natured camaraderie, and Kim can’t help but smile as they have a go at him next. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Drop you off?” They round a corner, close to Harry’s apartment. </p>
<p>“You’re the best, Kim.” </p>
<p>A heavy pause weighs between them, neither wanting to part first. </p>
<p>“Want to come-” </p>
<p>“Mind if I-” </p>
<p>“In for tea?”  </p>
<p>“See your place?” </p>
<p>“Come on up.” Harry beams at him. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Eve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! A little longer of a chapter than usual, although it might take me a little bit to write the next part. Anyway- Harry's apartment and a break from the case for the time being. Hope you enjoy, as always thank you for reading!</p><p>Just wanted to say how much it means to me to get kudos and comments &lt;3 Starting this I had no idea there would be so much interest, and it's thanks to all you readers that I've gotten as far as I have with this story. I'd say we're about halfway! Although that's subject to how much the characters get away from me...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The apartment is small but in a way that could be described as homely, the walls almost bursting at the seams with pride at how they now present themselves. Kim places his hand on the door frame, toeing off his short boots. He follows Harry inside.  </p><p>It had been enough time now that he felt almost comfortable with the whispers in his subconscious, but nonetheless the sheer amount of emotion and animation coming from Harry’s belongings still feels a little overwhelming. The last he remembers of the place, he was dropping off the detective after their bout in Martinaise-  Harry had wrecked his car and at the time Jean had no intention sharing. Since then it had to be said the detective had taken valiant strides towards permanent sobriety, cleaning up both act and home. </p><p>Somewhere at the nape of his neck, INLAND EMPIRE curls like a content cat, purring slow sentences and languidly introducing the more prominent of Harry’s possessions. From the shuffling way Harry makes his way round the room, stumbling while removing his shoes, it seems as if he is going through a similar process of greeting the various knick-knacks on his shelves. If Kim’s eyes weren’t completely bust, he thinks tenderly, he would have sworn the detective was rubbing the arm rest on the sofa with the same affection one might give a dog.   </p><p>The living room rounds into the kitchen, where Harry puts a kettle on to boil and absent-mindedly opens the fridge to check if there is anything he could offer his friend. It takes a second to reach him, but Kim feels a brief flicker of LOGIC explaining that no, mayonnaise on stale toast is probably not a very appealing dinner, no matter how many times Harry had forced garbage down his own throat while in the throes of a bender. The lieutenant ducks his head, thankful that the few months since their first meeting had changed the detective enough to reconsider eating like a Graadian wild boar- at least, not when company was involved. He decides to try projecting thoughts of the greasy diner a few blocks away in Harry’s general direction, hoping SUGGESTION might have something to say to him on the matter. </p><p>There’s some substance to the theory. </p><p>“Kim,” Harry shuts the fridge door and turns towards him, “Something tells me you’d prefer to eat out. Any preference?” </p><p>“Khm.” It still surprises him, this newfound connection to the detective’s deductive powers, although truth be told Harry has had a knack for knowing his exact intentions from the moment they met. “I’ve heard you mention the Mleczny a couple of times...” He trails off, expecting him to pick up the lead. </p><p>Harry hums in approval, straightening his tie in the way he always did while debating something in his head. He shuts the door to the fridge, sending a couple of novelty magnets askew, with a small smile towards his partner. </p><p>“As fine an establishment as any, and tonight is a special night...!” He pauses dramatically with a sweeping gesture, imploring Kim to ask why. The lieutenant sends him the smallest of exasperated smiles and tilts an eyebrow. </p><p>“...On Saturdays they have karaoke set up...!” The detective finishes, expecting some resistance. Kim shrugs. ESPRIT DE CORPS nods with approval somewhere out of the corner of his eye as Harry beams with barely contained excitement, and the low sweet voice like a song on the police car’s radio buzzes in his ears.  </p><p><em> Look at him, he </em><em>adores </em><em>you. You are too cool to be within ten miles of a microphone but you’re going to go to a shady </em><em>milk bar that serves mystery meat burgers and watch him croon his </em><em>d</em><em>isco </em><em>classics</em><em>. And you’re gonna love it.  </em> </p><p>SHIVERS chimes in as the detective finishes straining the tea bag from the second mug of tea, heat radiating from the porcelain. Kim notes exactly how effortless, how <em>easy  </em>it feels to indulge his senses and suddenly finds himself at a- </p><p> -<em> flea market downtown, strong hands gripping his sides and lifting him from a  </em> <em> cracked porcelain pile. He is chosen for his </em><em>capacity, as well as the simple warmth of the orange glaze around the misshapen rim. A second cup for a household of  </em> <em> what has been one for a very long time. A friend.  </em> </p><p>It takes all his willpower to school his face into an expression of indifference as he is handed the orange mug, Harry cradling a battered old thing with the ghost of the 41st precinct’s logo. Harry eyes Kim suspiciously, the supranatural senses not fooled for a second. He has the gall to look sheepish.  </p><p>“It wouldn’t do, drinking coffee in turns.” He mutters a second later, before pouring the dregs of his drink into the sink and wiping his hands on his trousers.  </p><p>They stand opposite each other, leaning against the countertops, feet brushing together on the cold wood floor. It takes a moment before they can look each other in the eye. </p><p>“It’s a thoughtful gesture.” Kim offers with a hint of fondness, passing his own mug towards the other man. “It makes me feel welcome.” He bites the inside of his cheek, surprised at the admission.  </p><p>Harry holds his gaze with a characteristic warmth, although it is not often the lieutenant is on the receiving end. It feels a little like playing with fire, his memory calling up when he first started smoking and would burn his fingers with the lighter, inexperienced. </p><p>Kim Kitsuragi would tell you- this is how it is to feel alive. </p><p> </p><p>----- </p><p>After some polite small talk about the case at hand and Harry writing out a bizarre shopping list (“I don’t remember what I like to eat or what I can even cook, and now that I don’t waste half my salary on... you know... I can afford to find out.”), the detective excuses himself and disappears into the bathroom to take a shower before they leave for the evening. Kim wryly notes that out of the two of them he could definitely use it more, but it isn’t his house and he supposes that he is getting used to jogging after spending so much time with shitkid extraordinaire, Mr Jamrock Shuffle. The sweat stains covered by his jacket aren’t as prominent as they were two months ago, after all. </p><p>He hears the soft noise of water from the tap and soon Harry’s voice rumbles over the top. He’s humming the latest hit from Sad FM, oblivious to the fact it was stuck in Kim’s head the whole day. Kim frowns. His psychic broadcasting must be playing with Harry’s mental landscape on more than just a conscious level.  </p><p>Kim turns from the door to the bathroom and finally decides to home in on the steady ebb and flow of information from Harry’s apartment. INLAND EMPIRE may be mild, but it is a tenacious voice and Kim Kitsuragi has never been one to ignore what could prove useful.  </p><p>Now that he thinks about it, the changes to the place are overwhelming. It is no wonder the walls themselves sing, lighter after being freed from several layer-years of grime and cigarette smoke. The bookshelves aren’t crowded, but the variety of topics is rather exotic- pulpy Dick Mullen classics, a few second-hand computer manuals, communist texts from the last century, love poetry; healing properties of the pale and atlases of the current world and some pamphlets regarding cryptid hunting. It looks like a library formed over the last few months by someone of a curious nature, looking to find out as much as possible about the world. It strikes Kim with a peculiar hunger, the same that would earn you the nickname “tin-can opener”.  </p><p>His eyes stray to the lower shelves, these filled with a couple of notebooks and cardboard boxes that whisper about the case files they contain. Kim does linger over the notebooks, lips quirking into a soft, unguarded smile. <em> A man after your own heart </em>, ELECTROCHEMISTRY smirks as he feels the tips of his ears redden. Kim resolutely decides to leave those well alone before his newfound brain companions decide to out him as having a bit of a thing for penmanship and comprehensive notetaking.  </p><p>He does recognise a lot of the items around the living room, either from their first ‘adventure’ together or because he was there when Harry would pick something up as per his usual, hoarding ways.  </p><p>Next to a wooden chess board resting on the upper shelf, a tiny metal figure of the headless horseman from the pawn shop brandishes a weapon. The horseman is surprisingly warm in his hand, filling him with an odd nostalgia for a childhood wasted. It takes a second to register the feelings as not-his, faces of teenage comrades blurring with the adoration only felt by younger siblings towards their heroes. Kim stands the trinket back where he found it.  </p><p>The lieutenant turns from the shelf to inspect the mismatched array of frames on the wall. Some contain photos from years back: a fresh-faced Jean with his arm slung round Harrier, an ‘official’-looking group shot of the entire 41st precinct, Harry’s tie the only pop of colour as he grins with an underhand expression towards the cameraman. Other photos are newer, more experimental. There’s a beaming Lena, half concealed among the rushes with the infamous Island looming in the background. The burned-out church, light streaming through the door propped open. The gleam of ice in the bay. Lillienne with her foot resting on her boat like on a felled beast, yellow windbreaker streaming behind her, sword outstretched like a revolutionary leader. The Hardie Boys in their usual room, heads bowed close as they discuss the day behind them. Finally- a copy of the one photo Kim took of Harry and the Insulidian Phasmid, the day his reality had been challenged and lost.  </p><p>They’re breath-taking, a mosaic of a man putting his life back together piece by piece. The tickling breath of CONCEPTUALISATION musses his hair as a pang of something not unlike loss rattles him. So- this is the collection. </p><p>It’s been this long, and they don’t have any pictures together. Kim fights the feeling but is nonetheless disappointed, and his heart clenches with a pang of longing. It shouldn’t be like this, these feelings seeping in where he had for so long managed to keep everyone else out.  </p><p>But then again, it would be just his luck that he’d make an exception for the most chaotic man this side of the pale. </p><p> </p><p>Kim’s reconnaissance of the living room takes all of five minutes, and it takes another five of waiting before the detective emerges from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. His skin is flushed from the shower temperature and smells distinctly of cheap citrus-lime bodywash. He’s still humming the tune from earlier, water dripping softly from his hair onto the back of his neck.  </p><p>“That one’s my favourite.” It takes a second for Kim to realise what he’s talking about, wrenching his gaze from Harry’s naked, hairy chest to the photos on the wall. It seems obvious now that he’s standing where he is, but the photograph of the cryptid is in pride of place. Harry smiles and turns, lost in another conversation with himself. </p><p>“I didn’t know you were interested in photography. Before today, I mean.” Kim swallows down a feeling of disappointment, a question burning at the tip of his tongue. COMPOSURE nods along at his valiant effort. </p><p>“Do you know why it’s my favourite?”  </p><p>That’s not exactly what he’d been expecting Harry to say. He shakes his head and hopes to Dolores Dei herself he isn’t blushing. </p><p>“It’s the one that feels most like <em>us </em>. The end to our first case together- of many. Probably one of the first photographs taken of me in years that I actually like. Taken by you.” </p><p>And there it is. The reasons laid bare. EMPATHY has something to say. </p><p><em> He’s so close to saying something more. He doesn’t believe himself worthy of your attention. He insists on taking up your time because he’s afraid it’ll run out, and soon.  </em> <em> Say something or lose him. </em> </p><p>Despite himself, Kim smiles, shy. </p><p>“We should take more. Together. Of us, I mean.”  </p><p>He clears his throat and makes to put on his shoes. It’d be a good enough distraction if he couldn’t literally <em> feel  </em>Harry’s happiness emanating from the man behind his back. It’s left unspoken, but by now he can eavesdrop on the exchange happening inside the detective’s head. </p><p><em> Together. </em> </p><p><em> Just you and me, partner </em><em>(</em><em>Sunrise, parabellum </em> <em> !) </em> </p><p><em> ... </em> <em> And what a beautiful sunrise we’ll make it. </em> </p><p>Harry gets dressed quickly and they leave, the dull undercurrent of emotion between them warm and content. </p><p>----- </p><p>They find themselves in a back booth of the Mleczny, SHIVERS muttering something about establishments predating neighbourhoods. Kim decides the voice isn’t exactly wrong- the surrounding apartment buildings seem to nestle tightly around the diner in a manner that is too anthropomorphised to be quite comfortable. Harry tilts his head, apparently part of the same conversation. </p><p>The milk bar is decades past its prime but a dependable clientele and no real competition on the block keeps it busy. Neatly tiled walls sticky to the touch line the back of the booth, and the leather is too faded to determine a colour scheme. However, the smell of sizzling meat and old fryer oil emanating from the kitchen temporarily distracts the two detectives from analysing their seats too closely, and they sit down under a table too short for Kim’s legs to be comfortable and too far set for Harry to be able to breathe all the way out.  </p><p>“It’s been a while since I've been here with someone else.” Harry puffs out as a way to break the silence, flashing a consoling smile Kim’s way. While mostly physically imposing (<em> Let’s not get too hot under the collar, </em><em>Kitsuragi</em>, ELECTROCHEMISTRY leers) Kim does note that his partner is above average in height and probably knows all too well the age-old question of ‘where to fit your legs’. As if on cue, the lieutenant’s knees brush against Harry’s. </p><p>It would do him wonders if he could control the jolt that the action sends through him. </p><p> “A while?” he raises an eyebrow, willing every cell in his body to stand down. </p><p>“I’ve been. Remembering bits and pieces. Well. Sometimes they come back and sometimes they don’t.” </p><p>It’s not much different to what he’d been saying before, but there’s a self-deprecating fragility there that Kim won’t stand for. He pauses, unsure of how to continue. With anyone else he would clear his throat and change the subject, preferably to something easier to talk about, like police work. Hell, even with Harry it was often difficult for him to do otherwise. He makes to clear his throat but then thinks the better of it, and <em>leans </em><em>in </em> to the background noise.  </p><p>The greasy air thins and lifts in a way not unlike the sensation of walking through the city after a thunderstorm, hot concrete steaming and dust cleared from the air. Time doesn’t exactly slow- but then again, it doesn’t exactly feel as if it’s moving quicker. It takes little effort to attune to the razor-whine of Harry, his voices a white noise tapestry in an otherwise quiet room. The jukebox, the people, the waiting staff- they fade out, Kim tuning his surroundings.  </p><p>There it is again, maddening and ever-present, even more so now that he’s trying to inspect Harry. A smell not unlike brackish water, a feeling like vertigo falling over him. Kim blinks rapidly before a voice reaches out, over the tangle of conversation. </p><p>This EMPATHY feels slightly foreign on his tongue and it takes a second to register that it isn’t his own. It’s more pronounced than <em>his</em> voice, more developed. Kim focuses on how it makes him feel and opens his mouth. </p><p>“Recovery isn’t one thing. It isn’t... Straightforward, no matter how it might seem from an outside perspective. You’re putting yourself back together from scratch and frankly speaking it is admirable to watch. To be by your side.”  </p><p>Khm. That’s one way to surprise himself <em> and </em> render the detective speechless. He should have known that opening himself up would lead to something sappy slipping out. He puts on a brave face and ploughs on. </p><p>“I’m proud of you for picking up the pieces. You’ve been clean for months now with only minor setbacks, you’ve tried to patch things up with those close to you, and you’re damn good at what you do.” </p><p>Harry sniffles from behind a laminated menu card and tries his very best to cover up the trainwreck of emotions playing on his face. The lieutenant sighs, picks up his own menu, pushes his glasses further up his nose. </p><p>“Kim,” Harry chokes out, eyes wide with hope, “You always know what to say.” </p><p>It isn’t fair, not really. It wasn’t him at all. Kim wants to disagree- I only said what you yourself understand to be true, under all that doubt and fear of failure.  </p><p> </p><p>They order two of the same. They eat with the companionable silence of starving men.  </p><p> </p><p>The diner is still buzzing as the clock arms turn a good way past midnight, the clientele moody as the kitchen finally closes for the night. They’re running on a skeleton crew, most of the waitresses gone home the shift before (SUGGESTION sighs,<em>such pretty</em><em>, </em><em>young thing</em><em>s </em>, and Kim grimaces with faint disgust at something that wasn’t his thoughts, more something from three booths over). It isn’t like him to stay out as late when he has work in the morning but between talking about old cases, animatedly eavesdropping on the booth beside them, and Harry recounting karaoke classics in real time, Kim has to admit that he’d stopped counting the hours. One by one they slip out of the seats, sticking slightly to the leather, and Kim goes up to pay as Harry excuses himself and disappears into what the lieutenant can only assume is a bathroom. </p><p>The woman at the till is shining with sweat and oil, her wrinkled face encrusted with a thin skin of grime. She looks honest and no-nonsense and Kim feels his lips twist to mirror the sarcastic smile she flashes his way. Her yellowed name tag reads TILDA. He can’t help but like her. It suits her well, her face open with a sort of mellow kindness. </p><p>“Be a darling and remind me what you and Harry ordered.” Her sweaty fingers hover over the buttons on the machine as Kim obliges. Two specials, a decaf coffee, and an orange soda. Plus tip, he adds as she scowls something fierce at the receipt. </p><p>“You’re a good influence on him.” She jerks her head towards the detective coming out from one of the side rooms, wiping his hands on the back of his trousers. <em> At least he washed them</em>, offers VISUAL CALCULUS. Kim finds he agrees, eyebrow raised at Tilda’s smalltalk. She doesn’t seem impressed and it dawns on him he has found a match in AUTHORITY. </p><p>“Thank you.” He clips, distracted by Harry’s profile lit up by the neon sign atop the jukebox. The lieutenant pauses for a second. “I didn’t realise you knew him.” </p><p>“Know him? Practically mothered him. Nothing like our food to take the edge off.” She speaks with confidence but there is an edge of worry hidden behind the words of jest. The staff in here are haunted by an image of a man destroyed. No wonder every waitress is skittish, deer in headlights.  </p><p>“He’s changed”, is all Kim manages out of his mouth before a rough hand clasps his shoulder and Harry takes the lead. </p><p>“Tilda, you get more beautiful with every day...” He winks badly, both eyes closing one after the other, and beams at Kim’s nonplussed poker face. She just swats the air and makes hushing noises. </p><p>“You get more sober every day I see you in here, Harrier. Now shush, you don’t want to lure Borys out of the kitchen with your lechery.” </p><p>As if on cue, a short, stocky man in chef’s whites (<em> although, calling them white would be generous, the state they’re in </em>) whips his head through the serving hatch and glares at them both. </p><p>“Borys? Is that your man of the month? I wouldn’t dare intrude.” Harry grins openly. Kim is surprised: interactions with people from Harry’s past are either tinged with pity or disgust or a curious mixture of all that and anger. These people, however, think of him enough of a friend to joke about their love lives. It makes him wonder. </p><p>“You’re one to talk, bringing your boytoy along on a Saturday. You know how our karaoke crowd gets, Harry!” </p><p> </p><p>“Boytoy?!” Is all Kim sputters as Harry joyfully hands over a second, larger tip and steers him out of the bar. </p><p>“Sorry about her. She likes to rile people up.” He bites his lip, clearly worried that his friend had taken it the wrong way. <em> Don’t say you wouldn’t be seen dead with me, like  </em> <em> Her Eminence pointed out so many times before. </em>  </p><p>“I figured. No harm done.” Kim pushes his glasses further up his nose and tries to change the topic “How long have you known each other?” </p><p>Harry pauses, clearly struggling through an internal conversation. Kim is tempted to listen in but decides against it.  These things had to be said on Harry’s terms, and he promised himself that he would only actively use his pseudo-telepathy if there was no other way around a situation. He had to respect boundaries the same way Harry never pushed him too far, although it had become increasingly obvious he could deduce someone’s life story from a faraway look in their eyes. </p><p>“Honestly? I don’t know. It’s something like muscle memory, I found myself back here a few days after we got back from Martinaise.” His expression twists. “I think I was just looking for a place to go that wouldn’t tempt me with drink and wasn’t my empty flat. Tilda was very helpful with piecing back some of the... less pleasant memories. And she didn’t mind that my brain is kinda broken. She says I look happier these days and I don’t bother her ladies as much as I used to.”  </p><p>He looks ashamed at that, although Kim secretly suspects the ‘bothering’ of waitresses to be more of the sorry cop schtick after too much to drink than anything harmful. Harry had one hell of a macho façade, but it was just that- and it melted as soon as anyone felt threatened by it.  </p><p>“Makes sense. We are only a few blocks from your place, after all.” Kim nods reassuringly as they cross an empty street, flagrantly ignoring all jaywalking laws. They walk for a little while in silence, the night air cool through the lieutenant’s thin jacket. He shivers, tucking his hands into his pockets, and Harry gives him a worried look. </p><p>He thinks of his apartment on the other side of town, windows dark and radiators cold, and how much nicer wooden floors are compared to the impersonal tile of his own corridors. He runs through his routine in his head, each timestamp later and later as he realises how little sleep he’ll get if he wants to get to the precinct early for his now-ritual coffee with Judit, or how he’d be going in the complete opposite direction if they’re making their way to the Harbour the next day. </p><p>“Do you want to stay over? It’s late.” Harry bursts out. His jaw is clenched, and expression schooled to look light-hearted.  </p><p>Khm. Seems someone was <em>projecting </em>.  </p><p>But he wants to say yes. And it wouldn’t be the first time. </p><p> The cosy image of a shared breakfast is almost too much to handle- they did pick up groceries on the way over to Mleczny, and Kim is quite certain the Du Bois fridge is now better stocked than his sad excuse of a kitchen back home. The location is excellent – closer to the precinct, and halfway to Martinaise already, the next step on the agenda. LOGIC is urging him on to say yes.  </p><p>And so he does. And resolutely decides to ignore the butterflies settling on the walls of his stomach. Much easier to pretend it’s just indigestion. </p><p>What’s harder to ignore the detective’s nervous energy, the way he fumbles his keys three times before handing them over to him.  </p><p>“Cold hands.”  </p><p>“Mhm. Let me try.” </p><p>He plucks them from Harry’s open hand, noting the delicate tremor in his fingertips. </p><p>SHIVERS sells him out. </p><p><em> The April night is cool, but a long way from freezing. The air lost its bite back in March. </em> <em>  You’re  </em> <em> tremb</em><em>li</em><em>ng </em><em>with</em><em> a sickly </em><em>anticipation. </em> </p><p>HAND-EYE COORDINATION pipes up. <em>Good on you for wearing gloves </em> <em> , anyway </em> <em> . </em> </p><p>Kim finds himself justifying the wait. “Give me a second.” </p><p>The door opens with a greeting, the creak of the hinges louder than a shared breath. Harry flashes him a grateful look. </p><p>“Thanks.”  </p><p>“Probably too early in the year to be spending the night outside.” Kim’s mouth quirks into a self-conscious smile and he hands back the keys, fingers lingering. </p><p> </p><p>Harry loses some of his confidence as they step through the door, casting a worried look over his living room as if expecting to find something wrong with it. The room stands silent, unchanged from the last they had seen it. No surprise.  </p><p>He turns on the light and makes his way to unpack groceries in the kitchen, and Kim follows. He’s tense, feeling a little wrong-footed, unsure of the protocol. </p><p>EMPATHY saves him.  </p><p><em> You’re both being ridiculous, acting like strangers.  </em> </p><p>It’s right, whatever the implications are. It’s not like they haven’t shared rooms before- hell, Kim had practically acted the part of live-in nurse dealing with the aftermath of the tribunal. What makes this different? </p><p><em> The blurring lines between business and pleasure, separation of lives dissolving. His coat in the trunk of your car, </em><em>Harry carrying around </em><em>your brand of cigarettes even if he prefers to roll his own...  </em> </p><p><em> Entanglement. </em> </p><p>The word settles like an overcast sky over the city, branding itself on his closed eyelids. Oh. </p><p>It’s a new feeling, one of smoke whisping around his legs, or tendrils of fog curling through the reeds on the Islet, or maybe standing on the outskirts of a room, lost in conversation.   </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.” </p><p>Harry is standing in the door to the kitchen, face taut at the edges. He has that look about him as if he’s miscalculated, put together the wrong information. </p><p>“What for?” Kim is a little baffled.  </p><p>“I feel- I feel like I pressured you into coming back with me. I won’t be offended if you want to leave.”   </p><p>“You’re not making sense.” Kim plucks a mug (<em> his mug </em>) from the cupboard and starts the kettle. “I said yes for a reason, Harrier.”  </p><p><em> And what would that be? </em> </p><p>“Right. Sorry.” Harry shuffles into the room beside him. </p><p>Kim settles on familiar ground. “You don’t have to apologise for my actions. Trust me to make my own decisions. Anyway-” He turns to the fridge, straightening a magnet. “-we’re heading off to Martinaise first thing to interview Audry.” </p><p>Mention of the case seems to put Harry at ease. “Right. We should probably head back to the museum at some point to ask Sy about the missing chemicals. Or try to get a hold of the archivist.” </p><p>“Can’t be everywhere at once.”  </p><p>“No.” Harry agrees. “Guess we can’t.” </p><p>The kettle boils, hissing weakly. Kim moves to fill both mugs with some weak tea. </p><p>“Do you have a balcony? We could do with a proper debrief.” </p><p>Harry flashes him a knowing smile. “We can try the roof, if you don’t mind heights. Got you smokes back at the Frittte.” </p><p>“I was there, detective.” </p><p>“Right. Right.”  </p><p> </p><p>They make their way to one of the larger windows in the main room, and Harry pries it open without much effort. </p><p> It’s moments like these that remind Kim how much he <em>likes </em>being on stable ground, he muses seconds later as Harry disappears up a flimsy drainpipe. </p><p>“Hey, Kim? Have you ever put much thought into the theory behind teleportation? And I mean the real stuff, not the type that dematerialises you and rebuilds from completely different molecules at your destination-” </p><p>And he’s off, rambling about quantum-whatever and the fluid dynamics of the pale. Kim swallows thickly. His feet are planted firmly on the ledge and he refuses to consider moving them any further. </p><p>COMPOSURE butts in- <em> What’s wrong with smoking in the kitchen with a window open a </em><em>crack? </em> <em>Did we have to follow along with yet another Du </em><em>Bois </em><em>t</em><em>wo</em><em>-in-the-morning plan? </em> </p><p>“Khm.”  </p><p>It isn’t what he wanted to say but the street is a little far away for his taste. </p><p>“You okay?” Harry peeks over the edge of the roof, his chestnut hair flopping over his eyes as he tilts forward.  </p><p>RHETORIC wants to say yes. </p><p>“No” forces its way out of his lips. </p><p>“Wait, I’ll come down.”  </p><p>With an effortless grace not usually exhibited in other areas of his life, Harrier twists, drops, and plants himself on the ledge next to Kim’s legs. </p><p>As before- the man has some incredible SAVOIRE FAIRE about him at times. </p><p>“This okay?” He turns to the lieutenant. </p><p>“Yes. Thank you.” Kim sinks to his knees and manoeuvres in a way that the two of them end up hip-to-hip, legs swinging below. It’s a childish pose, but there’s a reassuring presence to feeling the solid meat of Harry’s thigh against his own. Harry reaches over and squeezes his shoulder, jostling him teasingly. </p><p>“Thought you wanted to be a pilot.” </p><p>“There’s a difference between being an airship pilot and shimmying up some drainage in the middle of the night for a pack of smokes.” </p><p>“Suppose you’re right.” Harry turns his gaze away from him, casting a sweeping look across the city. “Not <em>much </em>difference, though.” </p><p>His eyes spark in the light of streetlamps, profile lit up by that meagre halogen glow. He smiles softly to himself. </p><p>“It’s a bit late for debriefs, I think.” Kim says quietly, unable to look away.  </p><p>“We can talk over breakfast. Do you still want to have your cigarette?” The detective tilts his head imploringly. He looks younger, or at least less burdened, than he did months prior, when they first met. </p><p>“I think so. Do you want one?” </p><p>“Not in the mood for a whole one.” </p><p>“We can share.” </p><p>Kim reaches inside his jacket pocket and his hand comes away empty. </p><p>“Damn. Left them in the car.” </p><p>ESPRIT DE CORPS fills him in. <em> There’s a reason why he carries them for you too, you know. He notices these things. </em> </p><p>“Here.” Harry fumbles and brings one out, along with a tacky plastic lighter with a kitten decal. He passes the cigarette over to Kim, who leans forward to capture it between his lips and lets the detective light it for him.  </p><p>He raises his eyes from the flame just in time to catch Harry staring at his face with a pained expression. </p><p><em> That’d be longing, darling. </em> </p><p>He can’t stand it. The air is electric, thick with the scent of ozone and seawater. He looks away, pulls back, takes a drag. He closes his eyes and shuts out the city, focusing only on the warmth of the body next to him and the cool of the windowsill. </p><p>Harry shifts beside him, settling closer. It’s as clear an invitation as Kim will ever get, the nuance of the gap between them not lost on him, if anything exaggerated- </p><p>He sighs and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, passing the cigarette over. Harry tenses. </p><p>Khm.  </p><p><em> Give it a second. Don’t move away.  </em>   </p><p>He relaxes under the touch, arm still slung round the lieutenant’s shoulder, and pulls him a little closer. Harry plucks the stub from Kim’s hand, inhales slowly; his mullet tickles against Kim’s face, still damp at the ends and smelling of lime bodywash and smoke.  </p><p>There is a peaceful quality to the rhythm of Harry’s breathing, feeling the warmth of his bulk against the cool night air. The point-light of the cigarette casts strange shadows. </p><p>“What time is it?” </p><p>“Late.” The detective casts a scrutinising glance across the neighbourhood. “Call it 2:30 A.M.?” </p><p>Kim nods, cheek brushing against the material of Harry’s RCM patrol cloak but doesn’t move from where he’s sitting. His eyelids are suddenly heavy.  </p><p>Harry puts out the cigarette. “We should head inside. ‘T’s getting cold.” </p><p>“We should head inside.” Kim echoes.  </p><p>They sit out on the ledge a little longer. </p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Daybreak</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for bearing with me! Had a little bit of writer's block recently, but I'm over the worst of it now so hopefully the next update won't take as long. This chapter is slightly shorter than the last but I do hope it's up to snuff :p </p><p>Some more domestic scenes before we return to the case :) enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The inky black of Kim’s subconsciousness engulfs him. He opens his eyes blearily, disorientated in the new landscape before him. </p><p>If he were more aware of his surroundings, he supposes he would be mad about it. The last thing on his mind still lingers: Harry closing the window behind them, moving through the apartment in the dark, Kim draped on his shoulder. </p><p><em> Getting attached, were we? </em> </p><p>Dolores Dei, it’s <em>that  </em>voice again.  </p><p><b> I think we may have interrupted something! </b> </p><p>He can’t be bothered to deal with them tonight. It had been a good evening, entirely undeserving of such an ending. </p><p><em> You don’t get a choice, darling. This is our realm to command. </em> </p><p><b> You’ve been all over him tonight, base desires turned  </b> <b> inside </b> <b>  out, hm? </b> </p><p><em> Baby, baby, baby- let’s be honest with each other.  </em> <em> How long has it been since  </em> <em> you listened to us, really listened?  </em> </p><p><b> What’s your body telling you? Can you hear my words over the pain of  </b> <b> existence </b> <b> ?   </b> </p><p><em> Early mornings, late nights, not even a drug habit to indulge in. You lie to yourself, say you get off on being in control but let’s be real here... </em> </p><p><em> ...You haven’t been in control in years. </em> </p><p>There it is, that feeling of prey cornered in the underbrush, wolfish features twisting in recognition, concentrating. Kim fights the urge to snarl back.  </p><p>The presence of these voices completely unnerves him. He can feel them circling, closing in; if he had his arms with him all the hairs on them would be raised. As it is, Kim is just a consciousness, trapped within an aging <b>limbic system </b> , at the mercy of his own <em>archipallium </em>.    </p><p>Huh. That was ENCYCLOPAEDIA. There’s a flicker of light like static discharging in a dark room, a sound like water running underground... </p><p> </p><p>It takes a moment for Kim to realise the goading has stopped. He walks forward, having found his feet. </p><p>This landscape is different, the colour more akin to the grey before your eyes adjust to darkness; it’s all smoke and mirrors, visual snow littering the fraying edges.  </p><p>Kim stops, turns to look around, inspects himself. He’s wearing his regular orange bomber, some rusting aviator sunglasses that seem to fit his prescription, cavalry boots. It’s an odd mix, sure, but not unlike his everyday if he were to commit to the aesthetic. The inside coat pocket embraces an unbranded pack of smokes and that apricot-scented vapour encircles him like women’s perfume- thick, syrupy, pheromonous.  </p><p>He’s too wrapped up in exploring how his limbs work in this realm to recognise the scene unfolding before him until it’s too late. </p><p> </p><p>Balcony. Whirling-In-Rags.  </p><p>Kim is compelled to pull out that cigarette, even as the smoke chokes him. He’s backed up against the railing, watching the hanging-tree sway in the winter air. Snow falls gently, twisting in the wind. It ends up in his hair: melting, flowing in thick rivulets down his back, reminiscent of sweat, stepping into the shower at a stranger’s house only to climb out his window minutes later. The neon sign bleeds light from behind him. </p><p>He adjusts his glasses. His own face feels coarse, alienly so- Kim never had much luck in growing his facial hair, even when trying very hard in his youth. He flicks the cigarette, ash spilling from the end, same motion as the snowflakes.  </p><p>Oh. He’s here again.  </p><p>It’s him, from the first time around, watching wide-eyed as Kim finishes smoking. Not-Not-Kim looks disturbed but does well to hide it. </p><p>It’s difficult to conceal emotions from your reflection, though. He sighs. Just like those two to put him back in here. </p><p>So he acts the part. Flashes his teeth in a feral smile.  </p><p>“It’s good to see you again,<em> bratan </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>The rest goes about as well as is to be expected </p><p> </p><p>----- </p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”  </p><p>Harry is sitting at the edge of the sofabed, concern and embarrassment warring on his face. Kim blinks, eyes clouded with sleep, vision fuzzy. </p><p>“Harry?” </p><p>“Sorry. I went to get some water and then- well, it seemed like you were having a nightmare.” He rubs the side of his face. “I was going to wake you up but seems you did that all on your own so now I look like a total creep.”  </p><p>“’T’s fine. I’m fine.” </p><p><em> Are you though?  </em>  </p><p>DRAMA chides<em>. </em><em>Get better at lying already. </em> </p><p>“It’s never nice, is it?” Harry stares at the living room wall. They’re on the fold-out sofa, at Kim’s insistence that he wouldn’t deprive his host of a bed.  </p><p>“What? Oh. Khm. I suppose.”  </p><p>He picks up his glasses from the coffee table and unfolds them, sliding them onto his face.  </p><p>Not-quite-dawn light is spilling from the windows, carefully kept at bay with a heavy curtain. There is a duvet lying crumpled on the floor- it seems he had kicked off the covers and curled into himself. Kim is suddenly painfully aware of the chill in the room, and even more so of the fact he’s in boxers and an undershirt.  </p><p>Wordlessly, Harry passes him a blanket. “I’m gonna go get that glass of water.” </p><p>He stands and walks over to the kitchen. Kim sits up, wrapping the covers around himself, a little disorientated. Blinks away the dust from his eyes.  </p><p> </p><p>Harry clatters around, opening cabinets and running the tap. The harsh white noise of water brings with it some soothing quality, reminiscent of the sound of rain, and Kim feels his shoulders relax. He draws the blanket closer around him. </p><p>“Here.” A glass is placed gently on the table. He reaches for it, arm stiff from sleep. </p><p>“Thank you.”  </p><p>Harry regards him with warm concern, eyes shining in the gloom. “You don’t have to tell me what they were about, but just know that I’m never far away.” </p><p>He makes to leave, switching the lights off, but then turns in the doorway. He stands there a little awkwardly, looming over the sofa. His face is marked with pillow-creases and years of exhaustion, undereyes stained purple, stubble creeping down his neck. </p><p><em> Ask him. </em> SUGGESTION is never one for delicate matters, not that Kim’s ever had much tact himself. </p><p>“Harry.” He pauses. He doesn’t have it in him to say it, not like this- </p><p>Harry seems to know what he wants without Kim having to express it in words. He sets down his glass and pulls the duvet from the floor, gently motioning for Kim to move over. </p><p>He lies down slowly. “You don’t mind?” </p><p>“I. I want this.” His mouth is refusing to cooperate, falling back on a childish stammer. Harry turns to face him, and his expression is twisted into that something painful again. He lies down a careful distance away, all limbs tucked into himself; Kim mirrors the position.   </p><p>Heat radiates between them- proof of life, proof of metabolism and cell death and the firing of synapses. He could reach across and touch him. He could reach across and <em> touch him </em>.  </p><p>Instead, Kim closes his eyes, tunes in to the sounds of a city waking up around them, Harry’s breathing harsh against the tangible silence of the apartment. This calm, this comfort- as unexpected as it is, it is exactly what he’s been <em> yearning </em> for for years now.  He tries to recall the name of the last person he shared a bed with. </p><p><em> Dirty sheets,  </em> <em> late night mornings, dying flowers on the windowsill from his father’s cousin’s best friend or something equally convoluted. </em> <em>  Crumbs under the kitchen table. Knife on the table, pears s</em><em>p</em><em>liced with figs and the promise of something more.  </em> <em> Fingers tracing childhood injuries, adolescent scars. The ghost of stubble against your lips. </em> <em>  How you watched him smoking </em> <em> , half- </em> <em> out of the window, bare-chested and laughing freely at the bite of frost against his skin. </em> </p><p>The name doesn’t want to come forward. It refuses to surrender. Let the past stay the past. </p><p><em> “I’ll do it, for you.”  </em> </p><p><em> Bruised hips, snarled words that shouldn’t hurt like they do.  </em> <em> Doors forever slamming.  </em> <em> Do y</em><em>ou feel your mask slipping, folding in on itself, </em><em>or </em><em>doubling in size </em> <em> ? </em>  </p><p><em> Traitor, traitor, see you later. </em>  </p><p> </p><p>“Kim?” </p><p>Harry’s voice draws him out of whatever memory ensnared him, and he’s grateful for it.  </p><p>“Hm?” </p><p>“Are you-” He stops himself, although the question is obvious. Kim turns to face him. </p><p>They’re almost nose-to-nose. Harry’s breath is warm, just on the sour side of mint; Kim notes how his own musses the detective’s moustache.  He blinks slowly.  </p><p>Harry is watching him openly, eyes reflecting the dark like twin mirrors. He swallows and tries again. </p><p>“Are you okay?” </p><p>Oh, how COMPOSURE could laugh at that. It’s been too long since someone asked him that and<em> meant </em>it, but the pleading expression rearranging Harry’s features is too honest for it to be anything else. </p><p>“I have to be.” He corrects himself. “I am.” </p><p>“Not to go quoting my therapist...” He speaks softly, and Kim feels his eyebrow raise involuntarily. “It’s okay to be human. It’s okay to not be okay, for things to affect us.” </p><p>“I suppose that’s right.”  </p><p>It’s hard to open up. This sort of pillow-talk never was his strong point- infer or die, read body language, take on forms that others slide their eyes over. Never linger. Put your head down and keep it there. </p><p>There’s a reason why he was passed up for promotion for so many years and it had two legs and a change of heart about discretion. Kim curses his younger self and the promise he made to himself to never again get involved with other officers. </p><p>A beat. He closes his eyes and exhales, counting in prime numbers. </p><p>It's hard to concentrate under the intensity of Harry’s gaze still on him, unwavering. The man has no filter, zero social cues, and even less shame. </p><p><em> You like that </em><em>about him, that freedom</em><em>.</em> ELECTROCHEMISTRY stirs in the pulse point on his neck and he swallows thickly. </p><p>It’s true. Harder to ignore when he’s less than a hand-width away. Not something he’d ever admit out loud. </p><p>“Tell me about photography.” </p><p>It isn’t what he wanted to say, but Harry’s soft, rolling voice lulls him back to sleep as he details what exactly piqued his interest. It’s a welcome distraction.  </p><p>He doesn’t dream again, thankfully. </p><p> </p><p>----- </p><p> </p><p>Waking up is less awkward than Kim expected, all in all. </p><p>His internal clock is jumbled from a late night and a false start a few hours prior. He opens his eyes to find himself tucked against the detective, hand resting against his chest. </p><p><em> Must have drifted closer during the night...  </em> </p><p>A warmth settles in his stomach. He smooths the thin fabric of Harry’s t-shirt, acting against his better judgement. </p><p>“G’morning.” Harry rumbles from beside him. Kim startles, drawing his hand away. </p><p>Too late now. He wonders if Harry has been awake for long, stuck still, waiting for the right moment to extract himself from Kim’s flimsy grasp.  </p><p>VISUAL CALCULUS chides him for the thought.<em>  There is </em><em>coffee </em><em>on the bedside table. Harry has been up for </em><em>some time.  </em> </p><p>There’s something thrilling to putting two and two together.  </p><p><em> He came back to you</em><em>, didn’t shy away </em> <em> . </em> </p><p>Kim decides to play it cool. Cool Kim, stoic Kim, collected and arranged, not a hair out of place. </p><p>Well. Maybe the bedhead can’t be helped at the moment. </p><p>“Morning. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” </p><p>Harry sits up, reaching for the cups. “Nah, not at all. I woke up about a quarter of an hour ago, thought I’d make myself useful.” He smiles jovially. “Coffee?” </p><p>“You’re a godsend, Harrier.” </p><p>Kim accepts the mug and moves to put on his glasses. The coffee is fresh, hot; just what he needed after a late night sitting in the cold. Harry hums pleasantly to himself.  </p><p>“Any requests for breakfast?” </p><p>“I’ll let you decide, if it’s as good as this” Kim raises his mug to prove the point.  </p><p>Harry gets up slowly, stretching his arms behind his back. He draws the curtains and the bluish light of dawn seeps through.  </p><p>“Looks like 7 A.M. to me. You okay to leave in about an hour?”  </p><p>“Sure.”  </p><p>Kim follows Harry, staggering clumsily to his feet, regaining control of cramping muscles. The apartment is cold in contrast to the temperature under the covers and in no time at all his arms and legs bloom with gooseflesh.  </p><p>Harry is oblivious- unsurprising given his track record with sleeping outdoors in winter. </p><p><em> ...A bear hibernating under snow... </em>  </p><p>Something about the thought makes Kim smile despite himself. He cradles the warm mug closer to his chest and makes for his clothes, folded neatly on a nearby chair.  </p><p>“Mind if I shower?” The intimacy of the question is almost unbearable, but damn it, he’s a man of integrity and routine. Harry blinks, nonplussed.  </p><p>“’Course. Make yourself at home. Uh, I think there’s a clean towel on the drying rack?”  </p><p> </p><p>The bathroom is a stark pastel pink, contradicting whatever preconceived notion Kim might have had prior to stepping through the door. He finds <em> a </em> towel on the radiator and decides he doesn’t care enough to go asking Harry for more details.  </p><p>The shelves are near-bare but there is a 2-in-1 shampoo/body wash in the shower cabinet that wafts a slightly too chemical-lime scent as he inspects it (hetero-sexual men, he thinks, amused, then reflects- is Harry...?). A greasy mirror reflects his face back to him: slightly gaunt, greyish in the bathroom light. Kim raises an eyebrow and smirks at the glass. Weird shadows cross under his cheekbones. </p><p>Still him, after all. Dreams are hard to shake. </p><p>He strips and steps into the enamelled basin. </p><p>SHIVERS whispers to him through the pipes, spilling secrets of the building and the neighbourhood; forgotten passages and loose bricks, footsteps echoing in corridors. It’s too early for this. He growls an unfriendly response.  </p><p>The water temperature jumps mockingly, and he bites back a yelp. Right. Thanks for that. Something in the corner of his vision blurs red.  </p><p>He showers briskly, body angled half out of the stream, nose wrinkled at the artificial foam running down his body. There’s a half-used stick of deodorant on the windowsill, which he grabs after a second of consideration. Kim dresses in yesterday’s clothes. </p><p> </p><p>He steps out of the bathroom to find Harry cracking some eggs, then moving to chop a few wilting mushrooms. Kim watches intently: first he adds nutmeg, parsley, and garlic, then with a spatula swirls everything together to make fluffy, pale-yellow scramble. The toaster jumps to attention. </p><p>“Sorry about the water pressure.” </p><p>Kim turns his gaze away from the pan, grimaces. “It was fine, actually. Do you need any help?” </p><p>“Nah, nearly done here. No finesse to scrambled eggs, although I've tossed some chanterelles in there. Hope you don’t mind.” </p><p>“You’re the one cooking for me.” He bites back a smile. “Don’t think I get a say in the matter. Smells good, though.”  </p><p>“Hope so.” Harry brandishes two plates and hustles him towards the living room table. He wavers, ducking his head towards Kim’s shoulder.  </p><p>“You smell like me.” </p><p>Khm! What? </p><p><em> The bodywash, genius. Not a reference to how you woke up in his arms.  </em> </p><p><em> Still a weird thing to say but that’s Harry all over. </em> </p><p>He clears his throat. Harry moves on cheerfully.  </p><p>“So- debrief over coffee?” He pours two fresh mugs. </p><p>“Right. Right. We’ll be heading to Martinaise today, to check out the harbour and talk to Mr Bern.” Kim reaches for his jacket hanging on the back of the chair, pulls out his notebook.   </p><p>“We could ask the Hardie Boys about suspicious harbour activity...” </p><p>Kim purses his lips at that. “I don’t know how forthcoming they might be, given our track record.” </p><p>“Please.” Harry looks up from his plate, toast in hand. “They’re practically family by now.” </p><p><em> He likes them and the feeling is mutual.  </em> </p><p><em> Not sure if they’d count </em> you <em>as family, though, </em> ESPRIT DE CORPS murmurs. </p><p>Khm.  </p><p>“Anyway. That should take up most of the day, I’d imagine, unless-” </p><p>He bites back the comment. <em> Unless you get involved with the nightlife again. </em>  </p><p>Harry beats him to it. “Do you think they’ll let us back into the church?”  </p><p>Kim gives him a look and he withers slightly. “Just thought it might be nice to see how the kids are doing, nothing more. Promise I won’t make you dance.” </p><p>“I don’t think I’ll ever understand your affinity with young people.” Kim shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. </p><p>“They just like me!” He mock-grimaces, pulling a face. “I don’t get a choice in the matter.” </p><p><em> A man set adrift in the world </em> <em> . </em>  </p><p>Harry stands from the table noisily and carries the dishes back to the kitchen. Kim watches, fingers laced together, elbows resting either side of his mug.  </p><p>“Ready to go?”  </p><p>“Yup.”  </p><p>Kim efficiently gathers his belongings and follows Harry out of the door, casting one last look at the living room and sofa where they woke up. </p><p>He finds himself wishing he could savour the moment again. </p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Aurora</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! Thanks for bearing with me. I didn't want to put out anything too short and it's been a bit of a struggle to write.<br/>But we're here now!</p><p>Anyway- some more case stuff with scenes in between. I'd say we're nearly there, folks! I'm aiming for about 10-11 chapters total, so get ready for some feelingz jam sooner rather than later. We need a catalyst....</p><p>Happy reading :)</p><p>James xoxo</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The drive to Martinaise is longer than he remembers. </p><p>Kim watches Harry fiddle with the radio, again. He watches the concrete landscape as it unfolds before him, brutalism devouring art-nouveau carcasses of the last century; bleak in a way that thrills you to the core, your very survival spit in the face of some greater being. Kim smiles to himself. It’s his favourite time of day to drive, roads vacant, mist prowling over the fields in the distance. The radio spews out a tinny rock song he vaguely recalls from his youth and Harry finally reclines in his seat, satisfied. </p><p>“Absolute classic.”  </p><p>Kim nods, catching himself tapping a foot along to the chorus. “Even I seem to know it.” </p><p>“There you go.” Harry beams at him.  </p><p>They talk about the random buildings and landmarks they pass, Harry contemplating their history, Kim indulging SHIVERS and ENCYCLOPAEDIA with a pleasant, thrilling rush. The detective keeps stealing glances over his shoulder, endearingly obvious.  </p><p><em> You can school your features all you like, but that doesn’t stop </em><em>the burning. </em> </p><p>What burning? Oh. Oh no. He feels a smatter of heat sweep across his cheekbones, reaching the tips of his ears. So much for COMPOSURE.  </p><p> Khm. </p><p> </p><p>They drive, radio filling the silence. Talk show hosts come and go as the sun moves in the sky, and the roads slowly fill with commuters.  </p><p>Damn. Kim purses his lips and changes lanes. </p><p>“Turn left here.” Harry interjects out of the blue with utter conviction. Kim sends him a puzzled look but does so. </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>“Shortcut.” He grins slyly. “You trust me, don’t you?” </p><p>The junction takes them off the main road, wheels spinning in gravel.  </p><p> </p><p>It is indeed a shortcut- and a scenic one at that. A thin path leads down the coast, running past derelict fishing huts and cracking coastal defences, winding lazily up towards the Martinaise harbour.   </p><p>“Are we in a rush?” Kim tilts his head, eyes on the road. </p><p>“Nah, not really. I just thought you’d appreciate the view.” <em>And like to get away from the traffic. </em> </p><p>He’s thankful for that. It is indeed quite beautiful. Waves crash against the seawall, foam washing over the road, and the empty post-sunrise sky merges with the horizon convincingly enough Kim could believe it all to be an eternal, grey mirror.  </p><p><em> Stop the car. </em>CONCEPTUALIZATION grips the wheel. He finds he has little say in the matter, drifting to the side of the almost-dirt path, Kineema purring to a halt. Harry shoots him a knowing look saturated with glee. </p><p>He leaps out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Kim follows suit, albeit with much more care. He joins him at the edge of the water and then they’re both staring across the bay. </p><p>“Remember the swing set?” Harry turns, hair swept into fantastical shapes.  </p><p>“How could I forget.”  </p><p>He whistles that low, strange melody again, but it’s lost to the wind. More waves buck and rear against the shore. </p><p>“It’s good to be back.”  </p><p>The detective says it firmly, an air of finality about him.  </p><p>“How so?” </p><p>“I- I don’t know how to explain it. I can’t explain it.” </p><p><em> Revisiting the cradle of civilization,  </em>DRAMA throws nonchalantly, and Kim gets it. He really does. </p><p>“I’ve got a bit of an idea.”      </p><p>“Grandiose, isn’t it?” He laughs to himself. There’s that flurry of white noise, all the voices clamouring over each other, smell of ozone and rainwater- or is it just the sea spray back in their faces, gulls crying out into the empty morning? </p><p>He’s used to it by now. Sends Harry a fond glance, just brief enough to hover on the edge of plausible deniability. </p><p>“You’re being cryptic again.” Kim furrows his brow, but it’s playful, light. “C’mon. Martinaise awaits.” </p><p> </p><p>----- </p><p> </p><p>They drive until the land ends. </p><p>The block of flats they were looking for looms over the ocean’s edge precariously, a couple decades from washing into the sea. The concrete is bleak but peeking over the ruins of the top floor is a trellis of various plants, suggesting an allotment or at least a green space. Kim smiles at the thought. </p><p><em> Weeds in the cracks of the pavement. </em><em>Solarpunk </em><em>society. </em> </p><p>The building doesn’t seem to have a caretaker, and all the doors look the same- equally uninviting.  </p><p>“Did we get an address from the director?” </p><p>Harry shrugs. “Only as far as this building. Besides, there are no door numbers.” </p><p>It is bizarre, Kim notes as they circle the outside of the block. Harry sweeps the yard in front with a look suggestive of VISUAL CALCULUS, and Kim decides to leave him to it. </p><p>“I’m going to go check out the beach.” </p><p>“Sure.” His voice is detached, focus elsewhere.  </p><p>There’s a flimsy fence to the side blocking off a dirt path leading to the water, and Kim squeezes past with ease.  </p><p> </p><p>Calling it a beach would be an overstatement. Muddy silt impersonates sand, hoping for a better first impression, but ultimately fails miserably as Kim’s foot sinks right into it. The waves lapping at the shore are feeble and murky; a soft film of oil or algae or something just as unpleasant drags its way across the top of the water. The beach is nestled into a little alcove <em>almost </em>under the building, and he finds himself stooping. </p><p>“Ex-cuse me?” </p><p>A small, feral face appears by his elbow and he jumps back. </p><p>The KID is covered head to toe in dried mud, fantastical patterns smeared on its face, something reminiscent of warpaint. It shoots a sulky look at Kim, and he steps back, feeling wrong-footed. </p><p>“You knocked down my pebble mound.” The kid gestures towards a nondescript pile of rocks, thrown haphazardly.  </p><p>“I’m sorry.” He attempts to school his features into something both parts apologetic and friendly, maybe with an air of good-natured authority. </p><p>“It’s okay. I was going to rebuild it anyway.” The kid deflates, kicking out at one of the small rocks. “Are you a pig?” </p><p>He startles, choking back an inappropriate laugh.<em>The tone is innocent, repeating words used by other ar</em><em>ound them. </em> </p><p>“Khm. I’m Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi of the 41st precinct, member of the RCM.” He suddenly grins. “So yes. You could say that.” </p><p>“Papa says I shouldn’t talk to strangers, but if I get lost, I’m supposed to find one of you members of the Ar-See-Em and then it’s okay for me to talk to strangers.” </p><p><em> Not Titus and his boys? Strange, given the attitudes of the people before their last visit here. </em> </p><p>“Are you lost now?” It’s a stupid question but he asks anyway. </p><p>“No. I live ‘ere. Upstairs.” The kid gestures to the building.  </p><p>“What’s your name?” </p><p>“Alexi.” </p><p>That doesn’t really help him. He tries again. “Where’s your papa?” </p><p>“Upstairs.” </p><p>Again, not exactly helpful. Damn it, kids always make him ask the most inane things and he gets nowhere. He plasters a mildly fake smile to his face. </p><p>The kid kicks at another rock. “He’s been staying home recently.” </p><p>“What’s papa’s name?”  </p><p>“Audry Bern.” The kid scrunches up their face, recalling something. “Flat 14 at Seaview House, Rue de l'Église, Martinaise!” </p><p><em> Jackpot. Kid’s well trained in reciting the address </em> <em> - must be one to wander off quite often... </em> </p><p>He nods at Alexi and they nod back solemnly before turning their attention to the rock pile.  </p><p>Maybe he’s getting better with working with kids, after all. Kim wipes mud from his boots in a nearby patch of grass and makes his way back to the courtyard where he left Harry. </p><p> </p><p>“Tare!” </p><p>Harry is rummaging through a bin. As usual. Frittte bag in hand, he gives the lieutenant a friendly wave and beckons him over. </p><p>“Find anything... interesting?” Kim asks, nonchalant. Harry’s pockets jingle suspiciously. </p><p>“Bottles. And keys.” </p><p>“Keys?” </p><p>“Keys.” </p><p>“Keys to what exactly?” </p><p>“No idea. It’s a surprise. How about you?” </p><p>“Khm. You’ll be proud of me for this one.” Kim raises an eyebrow imploringly. “I talked to a kid and found out what apartment Audry’s in.” </p><p>Harry shoots him a grin. “Conquering our fears, one day at a time. Where to next, then?” </p><p>"Upstairs.”  </p><p> </p><p>They circle the block several times before Harry points out a small, crooked corridor leading into a sheltered staircase. They count each entryway, one by one, until the stairs plateau and they find themselves standing on the landing in front of two identical doors. </p><p>“13 and 14, I presume.” Kim looks between them.  </p><p>Harry narrows his eyes and considers the situation. Kim takes a step back and does the same. </p><p><em> Look at the wall to the right.  </em> </p><p><em> Pencil m</em><em>arkings, the </em><em>heights of two rapidly growing children</em><em>, </em>VISUAL CALCULUS prompts. </p><p>“This one.” </p><p>“Go ahead.” Harry gestures towards the door. Kim scowls at him, none too keen on the task, but steps forward to knock. </p><p>He gets halfway through the motion when the door is opened in his face and his fist falls through the air. </p><p>“Can I help you?”  </p><p>The man that appears before them looks bone-tired, posture sinking with every second stood there in the entranceway. He holds a small child on his hip, just on the verge of toddlerhood, just on the verge of tears.  </p><p>“Audry Bern?” Kim withdraws his hand and clasps both behind his back. “We’re detectives of the RCM, we’d like to talk to you.” </p><p>“That’s me. Is this about Alexi? She’s on the beach, I can see her out the window-” </p><p>“No need to worry, we’re here regarding a different matter.”  </p><p>“May we come in?” Harry ventures forth. </p><p>“Sure, if you don’t mind me taking the trash out first.” He gestures to a bag by the door and they move out of the way. He returns a second later. “Come on in.” </p><p> </p><p>The flat is messy in that lived-in way suggestive of young children; the floor is littered with colourful wooden blocks and cracker crumbs, the walls far from white. </p><p><em> This is a happy home. </em>EMPATHY is sure of it, from the care displayed towards the toddler to the plants sunning on the kitchen windowsill.  </p><p>Audry places the kid down on the ground and it crawls off. “Tea? Coffee?” </p><p>Harry sinks into a chair as if it were his own. “Tea, if that’s okay. With a slice of lemon.” </p><p>Kim waves his hand to decline.  “We have a few questions regarding your position at the Grand Couron Art Museum.” </p><p>“Ah, yeah. Thought I’d see you sooner, if I’m honest. It’s been a tough few weeks.” </p><p>“How so?” Harry leans in.  </p><p>“My wife had to pick up extra shifts, now that I’m unemployed. It’s difficult for her. I’m trying to find something else but there aren’t many jobs out there.” </p><p>“Sorry to hear.” Kim attempts a watered-down version of the apologetic look strewn across Harry’s face. “You said something about expecting us here earlier?” </p><p>“Well. I was the security guard. Someone tampered with the security systems. I’m not confessing to anything but if I were in your position, I’d be looking damn suspicious.” </p><p>“Right.” Kim flips open his notebook and Harry takes the lead. </p><p>“Start from the beginning- security systems and the missing persons report?”  </p><p>Audry leans against the tabletop, runs his fingers through his hair.  </p><p>“Well, I’ve been a security guard for the last 6 years. First it was bars, but that got dangerous, so I was quite happy to pick up the night shift somewhere else. Museum security is easy work if you’re not scared of the dark: I’d walk the corridors with the other guy, Yusef, and we’d go in opposite directions to make sure we had an eye on everything.” </p><p>“Yusef?” Kim interjects, marking the name. </p><p>“Yeah. There are usually two guards on site. He’s probably been picking up the slack ever since they let me off- he was more of a day shift kinda guy, but we’d work together when money was tight for him.” His smile is mildly bitter. “Night shift pays better.” </p><p>“Makes sense.” Harry nods </p><p>“Anyway,” he continues. “I got news that my brother had fallen ill a couple weeks back. He took a turn for the worse and I asked Yusef to cover for me- that was the night we had the alert sent through to the station. I would stay at the motel near Grand Couron during the week for work, so my wife wasn’t expecting me back until Saturday. I went to visit the hospital, stayed the night there.” </p><p>“How’s your brother doing?” Harry looks deeply sympathetic. Audry seems suitably moved. </p><p>“A little better, if Dolores wills it.” Another crooked smile thrown their way. The toddler waddles over, crayon in chubby fist, and Audry picks the kid up.  </p><p>Kim flicks through his notes. “So your wife didn’t file the report?” </p><p>“Oh, no. I came home on that Saturday like planned. Funny thing, that. Turns out if you leave the hospital without an official discharge, you are automatically filed as a missing person. Something about security protocols or whatever...  </p><p>Either way, they called the police and then my workplace that evening. I went in Monday night only to find that they had let me go- Yusef didn’t cover for me, in the end. Since then I’ve been home with the kids.” </p><p>“Thank you.” Notebook cover flipped, closed; Kim turns to Harry expectantly. </p><p>The detective doesn’t disappoint. “How is your relationship with Jelena Sorokin?” </p><p>“The archival assistant? She-” </p><p>“Conservator.” Kim corrects, eyebrow poised. </p><p>“Right. That.” He looks a little sheepish at his misstep but covers it well enough. “Our paths rarely crossed. She likes to stay late, you know? Get on with her work. I’d let her out sometimes, but we never really talked.” </p><p>“Hm.” Harry shifts in his seat and places his now-empty teacup on the table in front of him. </p><p>There’s something in the motion that catches Kim’s eye. As if honing a blade, the intensity of the detective’s gaze flickers and focuses on Bern. The immediate effect is so distinct Kim wonders how he’s never caught it before in action. The man before them squirms, the toddler in his lap suddenly angled like a shield. He swallows. </p><p>“Er. There was that one time.” </p><p>“That one time?” Harry relaxes again, almost pleasant.  </p><p><em> Seems your AUTHORITY has brushed off on him somewhat... </em> </p><p><em> Negative. That’d be his own specific skillset. </em> </p><p>Audry makes to clear his throat again. “Uh. She stopped by to ask if anyone had been in the archives after she left late that previous night. I didn’t see anyone on my rounds, but I didn’t exactly bother asking Yusef about it either...” </p><p>“Right.”  </p><p>Kim leans in at this. “Any chance of someone sneaking in if they knew your schedule?” </p><p>“If you phrase it like that... I suppose there’d be a window. I'd usually walk Jelena to her car if it got late enough- Revachol, you know? Even Grand Couron has its scumbags...” Distaste crosses his features.   </p><p>“A true gentleman.” Harry remarks without real bite.<em>There’s a drip of sarcasm there, somewhere. </em> </p><p>“Whatever. That was probably the only time we had a conversation other than small-talk. I guess that would be all. Nothing else comes to mind.” </p><p>“Thank you for your candour.” Kim finishes up. Harry gets the hint, standing to hand the cup back to their host before reaching for his coat. “Detective?” </p><p>“We’ll be in touch if anything changes.” Regular RCM spiel.  </p><p><em> He recites it in his sleep, sometimes. </em> </p><p>They file out of the apartment under the watchful eye of Alexi, crouching on the stairs outside. </p><p> </p><p>“We should drop by the Union, seeing we’re in the area.” Harry pulls his coat around him as the sea breeze sweeps past. Kim shivers.  </p><p>“Mhm. I could use something to warm me up.”   </p><p>The Kineema is metal-cold as they make their way back up the shore, windows dewy. </p><p> </p><p>Nothing has changed since their last time at the Whirling-in-Rags.  </p><p>There’s the sour smell of beets in the air and clanging from the kitchen; the Smoker-On-The Balcony is chatting idly with Garte by the bar. </p><p>Titus is in the room drinking, as he always is, but his ragtag band doesn’t seem to be around. He raises a brow when he sees them walk in. </p><p>“Gone fishin’,” he explains as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is, given by the way Harry shrugs. He pulls up a seat and the tension in the room skyrockets, but Titus nods at the lieutenant to come join them and that’s that, apparently.  </p><p>Kim walks over to the table but decides to lean against the wall, just behind Harry. </p><p>“What can I do for ya?” Hardie grins at them, a little salacious. The detective slides into the Expression in turn and leans in. </p><p>“Good to see you again.”  </p><p>“Don’t play, Du Bois. I’ve been seeing your mug around here often enough.” </p><p>Harry’s tone is innocent. “Just making good on a promise.” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah. I’m not exactly complaining. Things have been better since, well- you know.” </p><p>Kim thinks back to the Tribunal, how the Hardie Boys nearly lost their best girl and eponymous leader. The memory is unpleasant, stained with fear and adrenaline, and he doesn’t like the hiss at the back of his mind that comes with it. </p><p>ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN spits but fades back into the void. Kim tries to tune back into the conversation. Harry is ploughing on, off-kilter as usual.  </p><p>“We’re on a case, actually. Loose end led us here.” </p><p>“All roads to Martinaise, huh?” Titus leans back in his seat, crossing his arms behind his head.   </p><p>“You could say that. We could use some insider information, a couple of things checked... If you have the time.”  </p><p>Oh, he’s playing up RHETORIC like no other; Kim’s lips quirk into a quick smile. But snake knows snake, and Titus is just as quick on it. </p><p>“Could find some, if it’s worthwhile. What’s the case?” </p><p>“Something about a missing painting that never went missing.” Kim cuts in. “Grand Couron. Supposedly some ties to the Harbour.” </p><p>Titus rubs the side of his face. “Smugglers? But if it never went missing... I guess I could ask someone to keep an eye on any art that comes through in general. But there hasn’t been anything suspicious in a while, apart from what we’ve been turning a blind eye to.” He winks at that. </p><p>“Let us know if you see anything.” Harry stands, shakes hands with the Union worker. “And hey- next round’s on me.” He points to the near-empty pilsner on the table between them. </p><p>“’Preciate it. And will do. See ya around, officers.” </p><p> </p><p>“Next round?” Kim nudges gently as they walk into the lobby. Harry sticks his hands in his trouser pockets. </p><p>“None for me, don’t worry.” He looks almost ashamed but catches himself in it and straightens his tie. “Just thought we could get on his good side, since we’re asking a favour and all.” </p><p>“That’s- I didn’t think about that, actually.” Kim is caught off-guard, wrong conclusion drawn from past experience. He clears his throat. “Good work, detective.” </p><p>“Thanks.” He ducks his head and smiles. “Would you like anything from the bar?” </p><p>“Hot drink. Surprise me.” He’s feeling a little adventurous- the day, smooth so far, has been working out in their favour. </p><p>The ghost of the morning they shared haunts him for a second, feelings amped up, but Harry has already turned. He’s walking towards what appears to be Garte, who’s propped up with his elbows against the counter. </p><p>Kim watches the back of him, body language oh-so-familiar. Harry gestures like an actor; all sweeping hand movements, clumsy on his feet until that something else kicks in and he turns fluid. He finds himself unable to look away.  </p><p>It’s that moment of distraction that means he startles as a supple figure slides into the chair next to him.  </p><p>“<em>Gendarme</em>, back in town so soon?”  </p><p>Something about the Smoker-On-The-Balcony rubs Kim the wrong way. Maybe it’s the way he’s at ease with himself with the effortless grace of a real-life<em> Homme Fatale,  </em>or how he plays up the effeminate stereotype to hide the razor wit behind his eyes. The man laughs airily and places a warm hand on Kim’s forearm. He tries very hard not to flinch. </p><p>“So it seems.” Kim aims for neutral, but his tone is pure ice. The Smoker smiles, eyes shining. </p><p>“I’m not competition. Just filling the time.” </p><p>“Time until Sunday?” He’s feeling petty, off-balance.  </p><p>He pouts, perfect lips constructing a pretty moue. “There are more days of the week.” There’s bite there, a sort of threat. </p><p>Kim suddenly puts two and two together. “What did you mean when you said you’re not my competition?”   </p><p>“I think you know.” There’s the feeling of dread creeping up the back of his neck as the man holds him under his scrutinizing gaze. “Or maybe you don’t, not yet.” </p><p><em> His specialty is figuring others out, how to get under their skin. </em>As if on cue, the Smoker removes his hand from Kim’s arm.   </p><p>Kim turns back to watching the bar. Harry has long since ordered, and there’s a booming laugh coming from the Union Reunion room. A second later, the detective emerges, looking ruffled but grinning. He waves at Kim and his eyes slide over to the man next to him. </p><p>“<em>Gendarme.</em>” The man smiles softly in greeting as Harry joins them at the table. </p><p>“Got you a green tea, Kim.” He stands it before him. “Hello again, Martin.” </p><p>‘Martin’ flashes him a look Kim can’t quite decipher. “Nice to see you back here.”  </p><p>There’s an awkward lull in conversation, Kim unwilling to discuss RCM business in front of civilians. Harry clears his throat and sips at his coffee. The Smoker-On-The-Balcony stands suddenly, leaning on Kim’s shoulder for leverage, and draws two cigarettes from his shirt pocket. </p><p>“Come smoke with me,” ‘Martin’ throws over his shoulder. The tone he opts for is light and dismissive in a way that draws you in. It’s clear who is the intended audience.  </p><p>“It’d be my pleasure.” Harry plays coy, words dripping. He reaches inside his coat pocket for that tacky plastic lighter and palms it. Kim swallows thickly.  </p><p>There’s something bilious stuck in his throat, growing with every second... </p><p>He isn’t an envious person, a jealous person. Harry is free to do as he pleases, he reprimands himself. He watches them leave, eyes trailing to where they stand just outside the storefront, visible behind the tinted glass. ‘Martin’ threads his arm through Harry’s. They look like old friends.  </p><p>He <em>isn’t  </em>jealous, the lieutenant repeats to himself. Maybe overprotective. He settles on the word, trying to fit into the shape of it. It doesn’t quite agree. It overlaps into a territory abandoned for years now,<em>Terra incognita </em>.  </p><p><em> Terra Nullis. </em> </p><p>Kim just- Kim just wishes he had that courage. </p><p>He burns his tongue on the tea and curses under his breath. </p><p>Suits him right, he supposes. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just some notes-</p><p>I don't recall if it's canon or from another fic I read where the Smoker on the Balcony gets the name 'Martin' from. I'll doublecheck my bookmarks and link it if it is another fic, credit where credit is due!</p><p>EDIT: It's canon. Thanks to @/Sheerclaw for pointing that out!</p><p>I get my canon info from the Disco Elysium wiki, but some entries are incomplete... I thought he could use a name.<br/>Seeing we're in Martinaise, it could be a sort of John Doe situation, calling yourself Martin. Also been listening to a lot of the Magnus Archives so there's the infuence from there too...</p><p> </p><p>I like the guy. I like his deal, and can imagine it'd rub Kim the wrong way in that "half-closeted guy watching someone be comfortable with themselves and trying to figure out what Those feelings are". Love u Kim but you gotta deal with some of that emotional baggage... Maybe next chapter? ;)</p><p>Thank you for reading &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Sonder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Finally, a chapter! Thank you for stickin' around for as long as you have, I appreciate it.</p><p>You may notice we have a chapter count now- I feel like I can get this together ;) In the case that it does run away from me I might have to add one or so more. </p><p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kim watches the figures outside and <em> stews </em>.  </p><p>The familiarity there between them makes some part of him he would rather not examine too closely itch. It bothers him- maybe he was trying to convince himself otherwise a quarter of an hour ago, but seems they’ve moved onto their second cigarette and he’s out of patience. Out of dumb luck.  </p><p>He sips his tea and flicks through the case notes as a means of distraction. Voices swirl at the back of his throat; a whirlpool of information clamouring for attention.  </p><p><em>Jamrock </em><em>re-shuffle, Kimball. Dancing to a new mel</em><em>ody, the whisper of the wind in the trees... Let’s put this together. </em> </p><p>Right. Right.  </p><p>The eldritch tendrils of INLAND EMPIRE rearrange the pages before him, VISUAL CALCULUS making the connections. It’s like a map, all spools of mind-thread leading to- </p><p>To what? There he draws a blank. A puzzle with a hollow centre.   </p><p>Frustrating, is what it is. He only hopes the last pieces will fall into place in good time. It’s all a mess of people and unrelated situations- or maybe it just looks that way from the outside? Harbour to Seaview House to Grand Couron to Jamrock. Kim takes off his glasses and rubs his face. What’s the motive? Hell, what even is the crime? Some stolen chemicals, an alarm system triggered by thin air... It feels an awful lot more like a locked-room mystery being written in real time than a case. </p><p>He gets bored of waiting, eventually. Rationally Kim knows it’s only been a half-hour or so- he's spent longer in queues at grocery stores –but the minutes drag like eons. He closes his eyes and watches the rise and fall of civilisations play out behind his eyelids.  His tea has long gone cold and bitter, left to brew too long, and he finishes it with a grimace and goes to return the cup. Garte gives him a quick nod as he does, telephone sandwiched between ear and shoulder as he writes something on a nearby scrap of paper. Kim waves a short goodbye.  </p><p>He idles a little longer by the door, thinking up excuses or ways to insert himself in conversation. He’s stricken by how familiar the feeling is, stepping into the well-worn shoes of his preteen self- always on the periphery, every interaction calculated ahead of time. A<em> bad  </em>feeling. </p><p>“Kim?”  </p><p>Harry sticks his head through the door, and he’s saved. The Smoker-On-The-Balcony slinks in with the draft; he gives a little wave to the detective and makes his way over to his favourite column in the room to devote himself to becoming a wallflower. </p><p>“Good to go?” Harry follows ‘Martin’ with his eyes. Kim slides on his jacket a little forcefully. </p><p><em> Not jealous, hm? </em> ELECTROCHEMISTRY always picks the worst time to show up. It sidles up against his stomach, a sickly sensation at the back of his throat. He chokes it down. </p><p>“Yeah. Let’s.” </p><p> </p><p>Walking under the balcony of the Whirling-In-Rags fills him with dread enough to outpace Harry. Kim shoves his hands in his pocket and hopes the detective can’t pick up on his thoughts. </p><p>The Kineema is parked a few blocks from the main plaza. They walk in relative silence, until Kim can’t bear it. He thinks of talking through his earlier deductions, to outline his notes and their next steps. </p><p>“So. The case. Any other business in town or can we go back to Jamrock?” </p><p>“Think we’re good. There are a few loose ends, but...” Harry shrugs. “Only so much reveals itself first time around.” </p><p>“It’s all loose ends from where I’m standing.” He grimaces. There’s a thoughtful look to the detective and he turns to Kim. </p><p>“I’ve been wondering where those keys lead to.” </p><p>“Keys?” Kim furrows his brow. “Oh. Those keys.” </p><p>The detective gropes his pockets and brings them out. “They’re too new for my liking. Fresh cut.” He opens his palm and outstretches it towards Kim.  “The metal edges are sharp, see?” </p><p>“Where exactly did you find them?”  </p><p>“Off by the side of the road, by the apartment. I thought maybe they were for the house doors, but they’re the wrong shape- see this large one?” He turns it in his hand. “I’d say that would fit a padlock better than a regular door.” </p><p>“A padlock... Perhaps there’s a storage unit out there, just waiting for us.” </p><p>“That was my thinking. Or a container... Ties to the Harbour, perhaps?” </p><p> “Mhm. Feels forced. Maybe we’ll get lucky, but I wouldn’t count on it.”  </p><p> </p><p>The journey through Martinaise is a familiar rhythm they both know too well. Kim reckons he could walk it blind. He’s somewhat lost in his thoughts, and curiosity laps at his lips. Would it hurt to give in? </p><p>“Talk about anything interesting, then? Outside, I mean.” </p><p>“Not really. Just small-town gossip.”  </p><p> <em> The swing set on the other side of the lock rattles in the breeze as a </em><em>man </em><em>approaches</em><em>. He is alone</em><em>, </em><em>a flask full of tea from the Whirling</em><em> warming his side</em><em>,cigarette in hi</em><em>s coat pocket. He comes here often, </em><em>surveying that which lies </em><em>out across the bay.  </em> </p><p>It’s SHIVERS, and Kim feels the hairs rise on his neck. Harry gives him an odd look.  “You look a bit pale.” </p><p>“Just cold.” Kim lies.  </p><p>“Do you want to go back inside?” </p><p>“No.” He’s none too keen to go back to the crush of people or that dreaded balcony. He adjusts his glasses and turns away from the detective, staring into the distance. “Car’s not far from here.” He bites the inside of his cheek but can’t help asking. “Do you- you like ‘Martinaise’?” </p><p>“I do. Feels somewhat- I don’t want to say, ‘like home’, but it’s that same feeling I get around the 41st, you know? Kinda like I’ve found a place where all my pieces fit. And then there’s that promise I made to the union boys, so I’ve been coming back...” </p><p>Kim feels cruel to correct him, but that jealousy spikes again and he can’t help but let bitterness creep into his voice. “I meant Martin Martinaise.” </p><p>Harry avoids his gaze.  </p><p><em> Chase it. Get it. Make it yours. </em> </p><p>“You do realise his name isn’t Martin, right?” </p><p>“As much as mine is Raphaël.” He has a faraway look about him, trying to twist out of whatever corner Kim’s aiming for. “You ever think about names? How freely we give them out, like they’re nothing special...” </p><p>“You didn’t give me yours so freely, ‘Costeau’.” Kim waves his hand dismissively. “That’s beside the point. What did he want from you?” </p><p>“Why that assumption?” Harry looks mildly hurt. </p><p>“Let’s just say I know his game.” </p><p>“I’m not sure you do. He didn’t want anything. We just talked.” </p><p>Kim nods and says nothing but it’s clearly unconvincing. Harry bristles still. “I’m not clueless, you know. I may come off as it sometimes, but I thought you of all people knew better than to judge me as such.”  </p><p>“Harry, that’s not-” Kim bites his tongue, the name sticking in his throat. </p><p>“Kim, look. I appreciate you looking out for me, but I can handle myself.” </p><p>That really strikes a chord with the lieutenant, guilt seeping through the cracks of what was jealousy just moments ago. Even when he’s being difficult, Harry still chooses to see the best in him.  </p><p>That’s not fair.   </p><p>“No, look. I’m sorry.” He lets out a breath. “He just gets under my skin, a bit. I assumed it would be the same for you.” </p><p>Harry <em>laughs </em>. “Wait, really? I thought you’d get on, actually.” </p><p>“Khm. Why?” </p><p>“A feeling. He works people out much the same way you do, keeps it to himself. I dunno. I guess it’s dumb to base a friendship on that, now that I say it out loud.” </p><p>Kim considers the point, wonders just how much of his personal bias is just that- prejudice against his own person, a feeling of unease around others. The thought is uncomfortable. He opts to change the subject. “You mentioned small-town gossip?” </p><p>“Look who’s interested. Judit would be disappointed...” </p><p>“If you share, I'll finally have something to tell her over coffee.”  </p><p>Harry smiles. “Just a catch up. We talked for a bit about art galleries, nothing special- he’s got an art degree, you know? Some backstreet hearsay about the Hardies...” </p><p>“Anything useful?” </p><p>“Like I said- just idle chatter from around the bay.”  </p><p>“Hm.” He reaches for his keys, car resting by the next street corner. “If you say so.”  </p><p>The Kineema’s lights flash twice as he gets it open. </p><p>“There was another thing. Uh. Personal matter, I guess?” Harry looks conflicted and it catches the lieutenant’s attention. </p><p>“Khm. Ok.” </p><p>“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” He runs a hand through his hair nervously. “He asked me if I was looking for someone- a weekend friend of sort?” </p><p>Kim can almost <em>taste </em>the jealousy that threatens to flow out of him. He stifles it under an inquisitive noise and an imploring eyebrow. </p><p>“Well. I said I already had what I wanted.” </p><p>He swallows, avoiding eye contact. Kim is frozen.  </p><p>He chooses his words very carefully. </p><p>“What would that be?”  </p><p>Who would that be? Her Eminence incarnate, another Doloresian beauty? Or maybe a fisherman’s widow, content to settle for whatever the nets bring in... </p><p>Harry surprises him. “I think- I'm looking for more of a week-day friend. Someone who stays when the going gets tough.” He smiles, a little grim. “And it often does, doesn’t it?” </p><p>Kim opens the car door and turns to his detective. </p><p>“A partner?”  </p><p>“Something like that.” He looks as if he’s ready to burst. “Kim- I’ve been thinking-” </p><p>He almost can’t hear it. He gets in the car and Harry follows. </p><p>“I’m bi-sexual.” He finishes his sentence and oh. </p><p>Oh. </p><p>“That’s what Martin and I were talking about for so long. I just thought you should know.”  </p><p>An awkward silence follows. </p><p>“Thank you.” It’s a lame reply but it’s also a lot to process. All this time, Kim's little crush had been manageable because it was just that- a fantasy, an idle musing.  </p><p>But to hear it from the detective’s lips?  </p><p>Partners. That’s what they are already. He’d die for him, sure, but what’s more important is that he’d live for him. </p><p>Harry's watching him again. There’s uncertainty there, confusion, but something clicks, and he relaxes his clenched jaw. Kim catches his eye.  </p><p><em> Make him yours. </em> </p><p>He’s leaning in. </p><p>Their first kiss is tentative, a gentle brush of lips ghosting over each other, tracing a shape yet undecided. Harry exhales a low note that was building in his throat, pulls him in for more. He’s drinking him in. Kim loses control of his hands, feels them rise to cradle the sides of the detective’s jaw, how Harry sinks into the touch like melting butter. A daring swipe of tongue parts his lips and Dolores, the sound that escapes Kim could shake a building from its foundations. Maybe it does. He has a feeling the Pale could swallow him whole and he wouldn’t notice; Kim’s focus is on the man trailing kisses down his neck, cradling his head with one hand as the other is firmly planted on his knee. He moves closer, chasing the feeling, knocking his legs against the seat partition between them. </p><p>Then <em>it  </em>makes a comeback. </p><p><b> Your body betrays you</b>, comes a whisper in his ear and he jerks back. Harry makes a little noise of confusion, taking his hand from Kim’s knee and he looks like he’s about to ask something, make sure the lieutenant is okay- </p><p>He can’t take it right now. The walls are closing in. He fumbles with the keys, roughly drops them in Harry’s lap, opens the door and stumbles out. The detective struggles with his seatbelt just long enough for Kim to put some distance between them. </p><p> </p><p>He’s running, and it’s cowardly, and he wants his feet to stop. Kim glances over his shoulder and sees Harry standing by the Kineema, arm outstretched towards him and uncertainty in his eyes. </p><p>At least he’s not following, although a part of Kim wishes the detective would chase him down and shake some sense into him. Months pining, months building up trust between them- and for what? Maybe if he turns around now, he can still salvage the friendship. </p><p>He keeps walking. There’s bile at the back of his throat and he surprises himself when he chokes back a sob. His breathing is all shot, his heart racing erratically- </p><p>Course, Kim hisses under his breath. Just his damn luck that something as harmless and <em> wanted  </em>as finally kissing Harry would bring it all back, bad memories amplified by whatever theatre that lives in his head rent free.  </p><p>The voices stay suspiciously quiet at that. He keeps walking. </p><p>It’s a curse and a blessing- at least he knows that all these swirling thoughts are his own, but what he wouldn’t do for an EMPATHY check right now... </p><p> </p><p>He approaches the water lock so suddenly he almost barrels into the concrete wall. He stumbles amongst parked cars until he finds a way through; a lone truck driver shoots him a strange look from the side of the road. </p><p><em> Your own feet are running away from you. </em> </p><p>He crosses the canal as if through fog, lost in his thoughts.  </p><p>What happens now? He’s missed the window to turn around and explain himself- that's assuming he would even know what to say. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets.  </p><p><em> This side of town has been dead for years, </em><em>much like an organ dies from lack of blood-flow in the body. A shrivelled arm, a sawn-off leg; ghost limbs with just enough sensation to make you regret the loss.  </em> <em> There’s a silence here that encourages you to make noise, just let it all out, too far from  </em> <em> anyone else for it to matter. </em> </p><p>All around, reeds rustle in the gentle breeze. The ocean sighs.  </p><p>Kim comes to a stop eventually, trying to put his thoughts back together. He takes out his notebook and almost thinks better of it before tearing out a page and pulling out a pen. Pros and cons list. He’s always been good at committing himself to paper.  </p><p>The main question here is what’s stopping him? What made him tear himself away from something he so clearly wanted? What goes down on paper first, his fear of devoting himself to another officer or how his line of duty doesn’t leave any time for people outside of it? His death on the job- or Harry’s? Another downward spiral...   </p><p>How much can he salvage is the next question. If they both attempt a stiff upper lip, then maybe their work relationship will survive long enough to heal. Or maybe Harry will go back to Jean and he’ll be assigned someone new. Worst case scenario, he rationalises, he can go back to the 57th and work his old job. The thought makes something clench in his chest. </p><p>He crouches to steady himself, settling by some driftwood.  </p><p>VOLITION croons words of reassurance by his side. <em>Easy now, you’ve been through worse.  </em>And maybe he has.  </p><p>Kim shivers in the breeze. </p><p><em> Toughen up. Work this out.  </em> </p><p>He stands, suddenly full of renewed purpose, and finds himself eye-to-eye with the Insulindian Phasmid. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Cryptid time much? Also wow that was a bit messy of them... Although we all have faith that things will work out.<br/>As always thanks for reading and see you next time xx<br/>Jim :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Cryptid</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright- I'll come clean. I completely forgot how the Phasmid spoke so this was mostly made up and adjusted to account for the fact that in my mind, Kim's voices are a little less developed than Harry's, and also the poor thing is just not doing so hot at the moment.</p><p>Anyway! The chapter count is up by one. I have a pretty sweet epilogue planned, as well as finally getting to the bottom of this case, and I didn't want to rush anything. Hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s easy, after all, to lose track of your senses when you<em> feel </em>so much, at least as of late. </p><p>Kim tries to recall how he reacted when he first came across the creature, but back then it had Harrier trapped in its gaze. It’s different now; he’s rooted to the spot like a deer in headlights, feeling his body straighten to full height and sway like a reed in the breeze. All fear, all anxiety- everything is purged from him in a moment, leaving behind only an alien calm almost like tranquiliser. The Phasmid’s pheromones? He can only hope it means him no harm... </p><p>The Phasmid’s kaleidoscopic eyes shine in the sun much like water glitters in the bay. It undulates before settling on its hind (can they be called hind if it has so many more of them on all sides?) legs and sighs softly. Kim finds it difficult to focus on just one part of it: from the rough-edged mandibles to the mute-blue eyes to the chitinous scrape of its neck. He swallows a small noise that threatens to escape his throat. </p><p><em> Krrrr </em> <em> .  </em> </p><p>The Phasmid tilts its head with keen intelligence, and the world reduces to a bubble around them. The smell of ozone and swampwater overwhelms Kim; it’s oh-so-familiar, all of a sudden, and he remembers. He remembers where he knows it from.  </p><p>It’s that same sensation he would get when homing in on his own voices, or when one of Harry’s would brush up against him.  </p><p><em> We... See again?  </em>A crude facsimile of a voice ripples through him, soft like a breath. He’s awestruck. The Phasmid settles a little closer, at ease, having realised Kim poses no threat. </p><p>He stretches out a palm, motion comically similar to calming a horse. Luckily, it seems to have the desired effect. </p><p>He chokes the words out with reverence.  “I can’t believe you’re real...” </p><p>The insectoid startles.  </p><p><em> ...</em><em>D</em><em>idn’t </em><em>talk before. </em> </p><p>“No, I suppose I didn’t.” </p><p>The Phasmid’s speech is jolting, a collection of feelings and images arranging itself into a language they can share. It’s clear that something changed since last time- maybe it’s just getting older, degrading, finding it harder to connect to the world around it. </p><p><em> Other one better. Less effort- we understood </em> <em>  each other </em> <em> . </em> </p><p>Harry has always been better at this side of things, the constant babbling and empathy, Kim supposes. "I will try my best.” </p><p><em> Can hear you now. </em> <em>  Not as quiet as before. All quiet before. </em>  </p><p>“What do you mean?” </p><p><em> Clear thoughts </em><em>now</em><em>. No fog. </em>   </p><p>Its mandibles move independently of what it says, and it lets out a slight trill. Kim realises (not much of a detective, after all...) belatedly that their entire conversation has been psychic so far, much like the first time with Harry<em> . </em> </p><p><em> No fog- but w</em><em>hirlpool. </em>   </p><p>“What’s that mean- whirlpool?” </p><p><em> You. All swirling. Fluid. Turmoil </em> <em> . </em>  </p><p>It bobs in the wind. </p><p>“And that’s me?” Honestly, the bug’s pretty spot on. He feels like currents are pulling him in all directions.  </p><p><em> You.  </em> </p><p>“How come you’re out here and not on the islet?” Kim glances over his shoulder at the broken boardwalk in the distance, the faint smoke-trace of town beyond the lock. </p><p><em> Island? No company</em><em> there, not anymore </em> <em> . </em>      </p><p>That strikes a chord. “Do you get lonely?” </p><p><em> Alone. Alone for too long. </em> </p><p>“You and me both, huh.” He feels his body loosen and finds he can sit down on the ground- no, more like he can’t fight the fatigue that fills his very bones, and he sinks into the dirt as naturally as the sun sets in the west.   </p><p><em> You? </em> It seems puzzled at that, as if gesturing to the swathes of humanity filling the Isola around them. Kim inclines his head. </p><p>“Guess you’re right. I can’t say I know what it’s like to be the last of a dying species, not yet anyway.” He raises his eyes to meet the Phasmid’s. “The Pale will swallow us all someday.” </p><p><em>  Coming soon. Leaking into here. </em>  There’s a moment when its sparkling eyes seem to pierce right through him.  <em> Harbinger of doom. </em> </p><p>“Is that what-” Kim stops himself. There's no way this creature would be able to tell him about the origin of his voices. He’s staring into the face of a cryptozoological marvel, he reminds himself, not the final shred of evidence or neat solution.  </p><p>It’s overwhelming.  </p><p><em> Leaking. </em>It stands up clumsily, clearly distressed. <em>Stop it. </em> </p><p>“I'm- I’m leaking? Leaking the Pale? How?”  </p><p><em> Whirlpool. Noise. </em> </p><p>The images before his eyes get more erratic, more abstract; it’s clear that the Phasmid is trying to convey a point, but his CONCEPTUALISATION just isn’t up to scratch. There’s the hum of static and his hairs rise on end. The insectoid trills lowly and backs away in frustration. </p><p> “Can we try that again? Slowly. I’ll do my best.” </p><p><em> Krr</em><em>.</em> It stands its ground. <em>Pale-noise</em><em>. Feeding through you. Hurts? Not hurts. Bad? Not bad. </em> </p><p>“Not-hurts and not-bad. I suppose it doesn’t do either to me. Are you saying it affects you?” </p><p>He can feel the beads of sweat rolling down his brow from the effort it takes him to express each word. The Phasmid shifts its weight: right-left, left-right, lifts a leg much like an insect thousands of times smaller might when encountering an obstacle. It seems to be concentrating. </p><p><em> You make the Pale. Or it follows.    </em> </p><p>“As in- humanity?”  </p><p><em> This place. The barrier is thin, and only waning.  </em> The Phasmid blinks ,  eyes closing  one-by-one  like the shutters of a camera. <em>Pale-noise</em><em>. </em><em>I can feel it in your </em><em>mind </em> <em> .  </em> </p><p>He’s having an existential crisis, staring into the face of a creature unknown to science, listening to it tell him that the very thing that is eating away at the fabric of reality is the same agent that’s responsible for the turmoil in his head.  </p><p>“Right.” So this place is what’s been affecting him all these months. Home to the first hole in the world and the last of the cryptids. “What does it feel like?” </p><p><em> Like water currents </em> <em> - </em> <em>  washing away reality one grain of sand at a time, waves eroding the</em><em> aging </em><em>coast. Like sunrays </em> <em> - </em> <em>  warm</em><em>ing </em><em>to t</em><em>hose with chitinous armour but </em><em>cremating </em> <em>  worms that don’t make it back in the soil </em> <em> , pink and naked</em><em>. </em><em>Yum  </em> <em> yum </em> <em> .  </em> <em> Like wind </em> <em> - </em>  <em> snapping reeds and kicking up dust and </em><em>tearing up memories of the land before your time. </em><em>Like a snake loops to devour its own tail. </em> </p><p>“Oh.” He suddenly feels acutely aware of himself on a cosmic scale. The Pale-noise (his voices?) purr impatiently just behind his eyes, a low vibration that the Phasmid keenly imitates, antennae twitching.  </p><p><em> Krrrr</em><em>. </em>  </p><p>“Does it hurt you?” </p><p><em> Hurt? Not </em><em>hurt. </em><em>Not anymore...  </em>It sighs again.  </p><p>“Okay. Okay.” Kim manages to rise to his feet, slowly as to not startle the bug. The creature watches him, tracking every motion.  </p><p><em> This is the last time we meet.  </em> </p><p>The statement is final, no room left up to chance or happenstance.  Kim wonders just how much the Phasmid knows. </p><p>Although- now that he’s standing up close, he realises why it said that. It's falling apart, a leg twitching at an odd angle, one antenna snapped, leaking a viscous fluid from the wound. He's briefly filled with an overwhelming sadness. He wants to gather it in his arms and make sure it comes to no more harm. </p><p>There’s nothing to be done, though, and he knows it. It’s a wild animal. It wouldn’t appreciate the interference. Instead, he gently smooths one of its front legs and tries to quiet his mind. </p><p>“You changed the way I see the world. Thank you.” </p><p><em> Krrr </em> <em> .   </em>It bows its head and begins to retreat. With a graceful step, it glides across the surface of the water like a pond-skater and mere seconds later Kim can’t distinguish it from the reeds. </p><p>The weird calm is gone, as if a fog has been lifted, and his muscles protest as if he’d been clenching them the whole time. Fight or flight. He looks around him. He’s covered in mud and got a splitting headache. </p><p>Back to deal with the real world. </p><p> </p><p><em> ----- </em> </p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take him all that long to figure out where Harry has wandered off to. </p><p>He stumbles past the Kineema, but the insides are empty, and the keys are gone. He’s thankful for that, in a way, the fact that Harry took the time to lock up- and didn’t leave without him. He checks once more that all the bulbs are still in the headlights and not being flogged at the nearest pawn shop, and heads towards the Whirling.  </p><p>Kim’s not exactly looking forward to this. Unsurprisingly, the cryptid had occupied him long enough to forget the reason he was out there in the first place- and it’s a harsh plunge back to reality to find himself once again wondering if this is the end of their partnership, if he’ll be forever alone. </p><p>(Well. At least now he has confirmation that the world is, in fact, ending, and voices for company. So it’s not exactly ‘forever’, nor ‘alone’ anymore.) </p><p>He shoves his hands into his pockets crossing underneath that hated balcony and boldly steps inside. </p><p> </p><p>The scene is much like what he had left only a few hours prior- daydrinkers, dockworkers sharing a late lunch, and thankfully no sign of ‘Martin’. Must have found himself a new target, he muses.  </p><p>Not that he cares, of course, he’s hurried to remind himself. </p><p>Kim spots his detective in an odd corner of the room, huffing dejectedly into what looks like a mugful of borscht.  </p><p><em> The not-spiked kind, thank you very much.  </em>The foreign taste of Harry’s VOLITION passes over his tongue and he can’t help but shudder. It must alert the detective somehow, as he looks up and makes eye contact across the cafeteria hall.  </p><p>Kim sighs, brushes off the last of the dried mud from his trousers, and walks over. </p><p><em> Into battle </em>, ESPRIT DE CORPS rallies, and he can’t tell if it’s his or not in this case. </p><p>“Oh- Uhm. I didn’t think you’d come back. Ignore all this.” He gestures to the piles of homemaking magazines, car manuals, and romance novels set around him; a strange yet wonderful reflection of his thoughts the last few hours. </p><p>“Trust me, for once you’re not the weirdest thing I’ve seen today.” Kim settles tentatively in a chair beside him. </p><p>They sit in silence after that. Kim flips through his notebook, trying to look busy; the detective occupies himself with one of the novellas but let’s be honest here- subtlety had never been his strong suit. Every so often, his eyes drift over to the lieutenant from over the top of the page. </p><p>So they’re doing this now. </p><p>Harry stares, looking fit to burst. The lieutenant fights the impulse to run- again.  </p><p>He clears his throat. “You must have... questions. Ask. I’ll do my best to answer.” </p><p>“Well- I guess there is one.” He casts the book aside and steeps his fingers. “What the hell was that?!” </p><p>Kim feels the heat rise up his shirt collar and shifts in his seat. “Khm.  Referring to...?” Oh. There goes the eyebrow, AUTHORITY sparking like a bonfire.  </p><p>“The uhh. The.” Harry can’t quite make himself say it, and swallows hard, regrouping. “You. Running off like that. Look, I’m sorry if I overstepped or made you feel uncomfortable in any way, but please, just say so? I’d understand if you wanted a different partner now, it’s a miracle you stayed with me as long as you did-” </p><p>“Harry.” The name rolls off his tongue intimately and stops the detective in his tracks. “We’re not spiralling here. I came back to apologise and say that I’d understand if <em> you  </em>wanted to go back to Jean or someone else-” </p><p>“I don’t. I want you.” At that he claps a hand across his mouth.  </p><p>“You do?” Kim feels his pulse race. </p><p>“Mhm.” </p><p>“Oh.” </p><p>Can it be that simple? He has dozens of arguments sat at the tip of his tongue, contingencies for every situation- but not this one, apparently. Kim opens his mouth to say something more coherent but all that tumbles out is a mess of syllables and half-formed sentences. </p><p>“I had a bad breakup that I don’t think I ever really recovered from.”  </p><p>(Harry sighs, “So did I. I think everyone this side of Jamrock knows about mine, though. We can work through it together.”) </p><p>and </p><p>“I’m a bit of a coward and not very good at expressing myself this way.” </p><p>(Harry just shrugs at that, face unreadable.)  </p><p>and </p><p>“We should really talk this through properly after work tonight.” </p><p>(A nod, and a hopeful glance at the lieutenant.) </p><p>and finally: </p><p>“I saw the Phasmid again and it told me I’m hearing voices because this place is like a literal Pale-sieve."  </p><p>Harry startles at that, then mock-pouts. “You saw the Insulindian Phasmid without me?” </p><p>“I’m afraid so.” He sniffs. “It’s not like I went out looking for it.”   </p><p>“I suppose.” He processes for a moment. “Wait- voices?” </p><p>“Oh. I thought you knew.” Kim rubs the side of his face sheepishly, adjusts his glasses. “When you mentioned them the first time we met, I didn’t take you seriously. I guess they started for me a few months back?” </p><p>“A few months? So like, after Martinaise or...?” </p><p>“After.”  </p><p>“Huh.” Harry muses on that for a moment. “Okay. That makes a lot of sense, actually. I don’t really call them voices though, they’re just... skills?” </p><p>“This is going to sound bad...” Kim bites his lip. “I think I can hear yours. If I focus.” </p><p>“Focus... how?” He furrows his brow. </p><p>“It’s like tuning the radio, finding the right frequency.” He pauses, struggling to put together the right words. “You sometimes overhear other channels as you search.” </p><p><em> Very apt</em><em>, Sire.  </em>DRAMA is an uncommon visitor in his head but nevertheless Kim’s inclined to agree this time around. </p><p>“Other channels- I think I get it now. And I suppose things have been different recently...”  </p><p>“Different how?” </p><p>“If we’re going with the radio metaphor, I’d call it interference. I didn’t realise that it was you.” Harry admits quietly. “I thought it was a new addition.” </p><p>“You didn’t?” </p><p>“I gave them all nicknames. Or, well.” He bites his lip. “They named themselves. Easier to keep track of, I s’pose. But you- you already had a name in my head.”  </p><p>Kim holds his gaze. “What am I?” </p><p>“You were-” His lips quirk. “Voice of reason, I suppose.” </p><p>“Oh really?” The lieutenant is intrigued. </p><p>“Yeah. I don’t know how it is for you, but this circus-” Here he points at his forehead. “- doesn’t exactly play it by the rules.” </p><p>“That’s the Pale for you.” </p><p>“Guess so.” Harry nods solemnly but his eyes are bright.  </p><p>It takes a second longer but Kim cracks. </p><p>“I just. This place- it's so fucked up.” Kim laughs to himself audibly, and Harry’s face twists through confusion into something bordering endearment. “Fuck the world, indeed.”  </p><p>“What makes you say that?” </p><p>“Sorry, I guess I’m still coming to terms with the fact I spent the better part of my afternoon with a giant insect that told me <em>all </em>about the <em>end </em><em>times. </em>” Kim rubs the side of his face and tilts his head to catch the detective’s gaze. “Everyone spends all their life making peace with the fact that we’re just the living dead, but I suppose hearing the extent of it is enough to shake you to your core. How many years do we have left now? And what happens when the pale does engulf this place?” </p><p>Harry flashes him a warning look, VOLITION flaring violet at the edges of his pupils.  </p><p>“Easy there. Did I sound like this after my talk with Joyce? I get why you were so worried about that now...”  </p><p>He reaches out a hand, slowly, and places it next to Kim’s on the table, just close enough for their fingertips to brush. Kim feels his own twitch in turn, the leather of his half-glove sticking to the tabletop. </p><p>He closes the gap between them and grasps the detective’s hand, bringing it below the table, just out of sight. Harry doesn’t move; he stares at the wooden counter with burning intensity. </p><p>“Why did you leave?”  </p><p>His tone is soft, verging on inaudible, but PERCEPTION is keenly trained. Kim squeezes his hand lightly. </p><p>“I’m sorry, Harry. I should have known better, but I panicked.” </p><p>“I know. I know.”  </p><p>“We both have our hang-ups. Just have to get through them. Together?”  </p><p>Harry throws him a crooked grin. “Phasmid must’ve gotten you real existential if you’re talking feelings in the middle of the day.” </p><p>“So what?” Kim huffs, trying to keep it light-hearted. “Just last week you cried over how fluffy a duckling was-” </p><p>“It was the first I’ve seen <em> ever </em>. Or at least remember seeing. Anyway- humour as deflection?” He raises an eyebrow, but his AUTHORITY has nothing on Kim’s.  </p><p>“Suppose you’re right on that, detective.” He thinks back to the evening spent sitting on a ledge outside Harry’s window, their tender bickering over breakfast, how much he enjoys driving with the detective in the seat next to him. Kim gives his hand another squeeze and notes how a blush creeps up Harry’s face. </p><p>“I think I’m done running.” The lieutenant admits. </p><p>“Good. Right. Good.” Harry nods vigorously, as if he’s being shaken by some higher power. He smiles shyly.  </p><p>“I think so too.”  </p><p>There’s a pause as they both explore how it feels to be close to someone again, the warmth of palms pressed together.  </p><p>“I want this, Harrier.” Kim admits quietly.  </p><p>“Me too. I'm just scared I’ll fuck it up again.” </p><p>“We’ll take it slow.” There’s a promise there. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest.  </p><p> Harry turns to him, face bright as day, and smiles with finality. “I’d follow you into flames, if you asked me. I think we’re going to be just fine.” </p><p> </p><p>Lunch hour ends, and with it the cafeteria empties. The two officers gather their belongings and set out back towards the car. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a little awkward, revisiting the site of their kiss, but it is Kim’s car after all, and he can’t exactly avoid the Kineema all his life. The sooner he gets back in the driver’s seat, the better for him and Harry- and of course, the case. </p><p>He can’t pinpoint what about it makes it so uncomfortable for him- the residual shame that still tugs at him from a religious childhood, the setbacks at the 57th, or just the creeping nausea left over from the Phasmid’s pheromones. </p><p>Harry watches him. </p><p>“Take your time. I don’t think we have much to follow up on today, anyway.” </p><p>“I’m okay.” He’s steeling himself, panic short-circuiting his voices. He’d be fine if- </p><p>Harry turns on the radio and suddenly he can breathe again.  </p><p>“Thanks.” </p><p>“Not my idea.” He flashes him an apologetic smile and points at his head. “Hot tip from the circus.” </p><p>“Figures.” Kim huffs. It's strange to be talking about his lodgers so openly, after months of paranoia. </p><p>There’s a metaphor in there for other aspects of his life, he’s sure.  </p><p>He gets in the car. </p><p> </p><p>They get halfway through a song and halfway to backing the Kineema out of a tight spot when the radio crackles with the static of an incoming call. </p><p> </p><p>“Kitsuragi, Du Bois. You there? Over.” </p><p>Jules’ patient tone is interrupted by several voices in the background. Harry picks up the transmitter. </p><p>“We’re here, Jules. What’s the commotion? Over.” </p><p>The voices ebb and flow, but from the sounds of it Jules manages to wrangle the mic. “Oh, you know. The usual lot. Officers-”  </p><p>More shuffling noises follow, and the communication cuts out.  </p><p>Kim quirks an eyebrow and Harry fills him in. “That’d be Jean, Mack, and Chester? Maybe Judit if she’s in.” </p><p>The radio crackles yet again and there’s a new voice on the line. “-And Harry, get your ass down to Grand Couron! The museum-” </p><p>Harry sighs and calls in. “Jean, if you’re gonna wrestle with Jules for the job, at the very least<em> be coherent </em>. What’s this about the museum? Over.”  </p><p>“You’re one to talk.” </p><p>“Cut to the chase.” Kim throws in, taking over the transmitter by covering Harry’s hand with his own.  </p><p>“Oh hey, nice to hear you. Harry giving you trouble?” </p><p>“Negative.” He avoids Harry’s eye as he says it, and he looks down at their intertwined hands. COMPOSURE informs him he’s currently doing an awful job of hiding the smile on his face.  </p><p>“I don’t buy it.” Mack drawls somewhere in the background but is swiftly hushed by yet another voice. </p><p>“What happened, did crime suddenly stop in Jamrock?” Harry leans into the transmitter. “Is that why all of you are bullying Jules?”    </p><p>“Harry,” Jules is finally back on the line. “The painting you were investigating-” More static.  “-The art museum. They called in a few minutes ago. It’s an urgent matter-” </p><p>“You’re breaking up.” Kim hisses in frustration. “Art museum? We’re on it. Over and out.” </p><p>He shuts off the radio relay and turns to his partner. </p><p>“Turn on Speedfreaks. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need it.” </p><p>“Kim, you’re too cool.”  </p><p>Harry grins and twists the volume knob to max.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>What about that then? Will we finally get a solve? Or a resolve? I had a fantastic time of writing this and I hope that translated into reading. I think seeing a cryptid would probably rearrange some things in your head.<br/>Thanks for reading and all your support!<br/>Stay hot xoxo</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. (tequila) Sunset</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Took me long enough! Wrapping up a case is hard work, even if it is your own...<br/>Although this chapter's a bit longer to make up for the wait. Love you guys, as always thanks for the support and look out for the epilogue coming soon!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The scene that unfolds as they arrive is pure chaos. </p><p>A dayshift security guard is there, attempting to restrain Jelena; she is almost frothing at the mouth and bodily throwing herself in the general direction of Sy Caruso. Sy writhes on the floor in pain, grasping his wrist limply. To the side, Jean Vicquemare and Judit Minot size up the situation; Jean is rifling through notes, while his partner is tensed, ready to intervene. Judit shoots the guard a hostile look out of the corner of her eye. </p><p>A few members of the public seem to be surrounding an object a little further in the museum hall but are otherwise none too keen to do much more beyond satisfying their curiosity. </p><p>And of course, what draws most attention is Sorokin arguing loudly with the man holding her.   </p><p>“It had to be him, the fucking brat. I wouldn’t have. Ask the director. They will tell you. I would have never-” </p><p>The GUARDSMAN snorts derisively. “The director was the one to call them in.” He throws a look over his shoulder at the officers, daring them to get involved. </p><p>Judit elbows her partner discreetly.   </p><p><em> Not a fan of the manhandling, then.  </em>ESPRIT DE CORPS hums between them all. </p><p>Jean interrupts, stepping towards the two figures. “So here we have two eyewitness reports and the ruined painting-” </p><p>“You call that liar and his sell-out pet guard eyewitnesses?” Jelena rounds in on him, twisting in the other man’s loose grip. “I knew the RCM was incompetent and corrupt but you’re <em>really </em>something else.” </p><p>She’s wild-eyed, hissing the words in anger; Jean just looks tired. “Not really relevant right now...” </p><p>Minot materialises behind them, placing a hand on the guard’s shoulder. “That’s enough of that, by the way.”   </p><p>It takes a moment, but the scene resolves: the guard drops Jelena as if she burns to the touch and retreats a safe distance from Judit. Sorokin grits her teeth and clenches her fists but moves no closer to Sy, still on the marble floor and doing his best to pretend he doesn’t exist. </p><p>“Khm.”  </p><p>Kim finally steps out from his doorway vantage point, Harry in tow. The detective seems disoriented, eyes scanning the room in rapid motions. He’s unusually quiet.  </p><p>It’s strange to see their fellow officers in action, pragmatic and slow-moving compared to his and Harry’s pace. They have all the hallmarks of Jamrock shuffle about them but none of the disco.  </p><p>ESPIRT DE CORPS purrs lowly.<em>Your case.Your arrest.  </em> </p><p>“Fuckin’ finally.” Jean gives Harry the hairy eyeball but it’s clear he’s just frustrated with the situation. “Took your sweet time. What, you took the scenic route? Stopped off at Makeout Creek along the way?” </p><p>Kim feels a blush creeping up his neck. Lucky for him, the detective snaps out of his daze. “Shut it, Vicky. We were up by the Harbour. What’s this mess?” </p><p>“Dr Taneka called to report-” Judit flips open her notebook. “-criminal damage and assault.” She raises an eyebrow.  </p><p>“I don’t understand.” Jelena’s voice is shaky, as if she’s fighting herself for control. “Taneka called you?” </p><p><em> Years of mentorship-turned</em><em>-</em><em>friendship, years of trust- she's </em><em>had the floor pulled out from under her. A fall from grace. Luciferian</em><em>, queen of thorns and second chances </em> <em> . </em>  </p><p>Kim grimaces. Harry shoots him an apologetic look; the man’s leaking EMPATHY, distracted by the crowd further down the hall.   </p><p><em> You might want to check that out sooner rather than later. </em>VISUAL CALCULUS rears its ugly head, tinging the corners of Kim’s vision an x-ray blue that takes a shake of his head to dispel. Jean gives him a funny look as he does so. </p><p>“Anyway. Seeing you and Dick Mullen were out busy with your seaside rendezvous, we’ve been sent to deal with this cock-up.” He shrugs, folding his arms across his chest.  </p><p>Judit frowns. “Jean, the Harbour really is more than an hour’s drive away...”   </p><p>“We came as soon as we could.” The lieutenant’s expression is saccharine, lifeless, and Jean rolls his eyes in defeat. “Can we stop wasting time and get back to the matter at hand?”  </p><p>“Sure. Whatever.”  </p><p><em> He’s finding it difficult to hand a case back over to his former partner, convinced he’ll fail again. He likes you, Kim, but resents the standing you have with Harry. This is Jean scorned, Jean </em><em>rebuilding himself from a hollowed shell. </em>This time it’s Kim’s own EMPATHY that warns him in a low voice.  <em> He's really trying </em> <em> . </em>  </p><p>“Play nice, JV.” Judit smiles apologetically. “We arrived at the scene about a quarter hour ago, after a call from the director. They’d called in to report a scuffle between employees, although we’re yet to establish what happened exactly. And then there’s the painting...” </p><p>There’s a noise of expensive clothing sliding over smooth flooring as Caruso sits up.  </p><p>“That bitch attacked me out of fucking nowhere, is what happened.” Sy glowers at Jelena. She stands a little way away, burning with a cold fury. “Thinks she’ll get away with it too. I’ll make sure you don’t.” </p><p>“That’s not up to you, kid.” Harry steps forward, protective. “Scram. We’ll talk to you later.”  </p><p>There’s the tough edge of AUTHORITY and years of practice as a gym teacher behind the words, enough that the man hobbles to his feet, followed by his guard friend. Kim notes how Jelena relaxes as soon as the two are out of earshot. </p><p>“So.” He turns, eyes piercing. “What’s your version of events?” </p><p> </p><p>----- </p><p> </p><p>Jean waits outside in the plaza with Sy Caruso. Judit clears out the museum halls.  </p><p>Harry is nowhere to be seen, which irks Kim somewhat. It’s not like he hasn’t interrogated on his own before, but there’s a comfort in having a partner by your side, especially one with such wildly conflicting yet successful interpersonal skills. The detective had made his apologies and vanished into the museum’s archives just as Kim expressed a desire to find a room to take down Sorokin’s statement. </p><p>Just him, then. Jelena regards him, cool and distanced, professional. It’s a battle of the wills, this silence, seeing who breaks it first. Kim flips open his notebook, nonchalant. </p><p>“I can’t believe they’d take his side over mine.” Sure enough, she cracks.  </p><p>“The director?” He rifles through the pages back to their first museum visit. She nods stiffly.  </p><p>“I’ve worked here for years, no complaint. This place is practically my home.” </p><p>“What happened this afternoon?” Kim attempts a sympathetic expression. </p><p><em> You look bored. And tired.  </em> </p><p> Right. Khm. Thank COMPOSURE for that, then. </p><p>“I did hurt him, if you’re wondering. Self-defense. That’s all I’m confessing to. I had nothing to do with the rest of it.” She sniffs, and he wonders if he has a spare handkerchief somewhere. Maybe he left it in the car. Damn. </p><p>“Hurt him- I'm assuming you mean Mr Caruso?”  </p><p>“Yeah, him.” Jelena looks defeated, shoulders slumped. “I can explain.”  </p><p>Kim raises an eyebrow. “I’m listening.” </p><p>“Right. Right.” She breathes out deeply, attempting to compose herself. Even with the impression she made earlier in the museum hall, hot-headed anger and curse-spit, he can’t help but note how nervous she really is.  </p><p><em> She’ll tell the truth, won’t tell it slant. </em>   </p><p>“I came into work today as usual- I don’t deal with the public, so my ‘usual’ is a few hours after the gallery opens. I stay late, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned before.” She flashes a brittle smile. “I was looking forward to today, actually.” </p><p>“Any specific reason?” Kim pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. She nods. </p><p>“Yes. I thought I could put the finishing touches on the Pernikarnassian, get it back in place tomorrow. It’s a big deal. It was a big deal.”  </p><p>“Was?”  </p><p>“Well that’s the kicker, isn’t it?” Jelena hugs her arms to her chest, crumpling her blazer. “That’s what all this is all about. Didn’t they tell you?” </p><p>Khm. It would have done him good to check the museum out beforehand, but no matter now. Harry will fill him in later. Kim runs his fingers through his hair, adjusts his glasses yet again. </p><p>“Our radio circuit has been patchy the last few weeks- blame it on Pale activity. I must admit our preparation was... subpar, in this case.” </p><p>“Works for me. Means you haven’t heard Sy’s twisted version of events yet, anyhow.” She cheers up marginally. </p><p>“So- what happened with the painting?”   </p><p>“It’s been destroyed. I don’t know why or how; you’ll have to see for yourself. Apparently Sy found it at my workstation before I arrived, and obviously jumped to the conclusion that it was my doing. When I walked into the archives, he tried to grab me and lock me in one of the climate-control rooms, so I defended myself. And then your colleagues arrived...” She grits her teeth. “And believed him, by the looks of it.” </p><p>“Right.” Kim closes his notebook. “Is that all you want to tell me?” </p><p>She thinks for a moment. “Not much else comes to mind. I guess at one point the new security guard got involved, and we ended up in the corridor. It was fight or flight- I think I was trying to find the director?” A shake of the head. “No, I think I was just trying to get away from Caruso. He carried the painting out from the archives and kept yelling at me, ‘look at what you’ve done’, or whatever. Look, I panicked. I must have grabbed his wrist as he was trying to restrain me- I'm somewhat of a martial arts fan, I guess instinct kicked in?” </p><p>“And that brings us to what Detective Du Bois and myself walked into, I suppose.” </p><p>“More or less.” She seems a lot more collected now, having had the chance to speak her piece. Kim chooses his next words carefully. </p><p>“Personally, I believe that you had nothing to do with the destruction of the painting; that much is clear from our interviews prior.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Khm. I can’t let you leave the premises until we establish a timeline and a suspect, though. As for what happened between yourself and Mr Caruso- we'll interview him next and establish some eyewitnesses as to what happened outside the archives. I take the museum only has security cameras in the halls?” </p><p>“Not even that. You’d have to double-check with a guard.” Jelena shrugs and collects her jacket and bag from the neighbouring chair. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll be in the break room until you can release us.” </p><p>He opens the door for her and lets her through.  </p><p> </p><p>It isn’t a surprise to find Harry hovering on the other side. The detective flashes Sorokin a consolidatory smile, which she returns as she passes. </p><p>“Useful?”  </p><p>Kim inclines his head. “I’d say so. Where have you been?” </p><p>“I had a look at the painting.” His eyes are shining, like the world’s best inside joke is playing out before him.  </p><p>“And? What happened?” </p><p>“Don’t you love the times when we get to tie up every loose end? When everything falls neatly into place?”  </p><p>Kim’s about to answer but Harry steps forward and grabs him by the shoulders. “Come with me.” </p><p>And so he lets the detective lead him, hand on elbow, to the archives. </p><p> </p><p>The corridors of the museum are now empty, thanks to Judit’s quick thinking and skill at wrangling crowds of people. Harry ploughs ahead. Kim knows better than to try to ask what they’re looking for, or interrupt in any other way. Here's the tin-can opener, the slobbering bloodhound, the riptide pulling them both under.  </p><p>He can almost taste the voices swirling around them, disturbed like ripples on the surface of the pond. Here’s his own VISUAL CALCULUS, tracing paths towards the closest exits; there shuffles SHIVERS, with the hiss of pipes and hum of fluorescent lights.  </p><p>Now that he knows what they are- the Pale leaking into his reality, augmenting his senses – he's finally comfortable with them. At least he’s not losing it or succumbing to some undocumented side-effect of head trauma from months back. There’s only so much that can shock you when the world is decades from collapse; this isn’t the time to choose battles, not anymore. </p><p>Harry walks with a confidence in his stride, long steps and fast pace, enough that it gets uncomfortable to try to keep up with. He turns corners with a crisp precision.  </p><p>The door to the archives is ajar, darkness blooming from within. It’s mocking, in a way, Kim notes wryly. Sunrise, parabellum/Here be dragons. </p><p>Damn, this job’s making him dramatic. He sighs. Give it two more months and he’ll be staring wistfully into the distance, pining for the horizon at dawn... </p><p>Harry’s voice from inside the room brings him back to the situation at hand. </p><p>“I moved the painting back to Jelena’s desk.” The detective gestures to a table illuminated by a floodlight overhead, stark against its surroundings. “Thought it best to analyse the complete scene.” </p><p>Kim moves to join him, voices clamouring. He indulges. </p><p>The desk is rough with years of work and spilled chemicals, yet neatly organised. Lying on top- placed strategically, in pride of place – is the mangled corpse of the Pernikarnassian.  </p><p>The canvas is blackened with chemical burns and smudges of paint, all gold leaf scratched off with a sharp object. It’s beyond recognition.  </p><p><em> Or was </em><em>it never right in the first place?  </em>  </p><p>INLAND EMPIRE burns bright behind his eyelids and he blinks slowly. The world around him lights up. </p><p>The PAINTING <em>breathes </em> . The cloth background knits itself back together and a silhouette of a man- or at least, a masculine youth- inhabits it. <em>I was made to be beautiful. </em> <em>  Look what they’ve done to me. </em> </p><p>It takes a moment for Kim to recover and realise the painting is talking to him.  </p><p>“What have they done to you?” The lieutenant drops his voice to a low whisper and leans in conspiratorially. Harry watches him from across the table. </p><p><em> They made me and unmade me. I was their sacrificial lamb. </em> </p><p>“I’m sorry.” </p><p><em> It was my unpleasant purpose. There was no love between myself and my creator. I was the mirror image, Plato’s allegory of the cave. </em> </p><p>He frowns, eyes roving over each recreated detail before him. The youth exhales one final time and crumbles to ashes.  </p><p>Khm.  </p><p> Harry’s soft voice breaks the silence. “What do you think?” </p><p>“This... isn’t the real painting.”  </p><p>There’s genuine shock there- to an untrained eye, with all the contextual evidence pointing one way, it would be impossible to tell the difference. Now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it: behind all the damage, the deliberate mangling of canvas, is a crude impersonation of the real deal. </p><p>“That’s what I thought.” He nods firmly. “So the question is- where is ‘His Honour’?” </p><p>His face is stuck in that ghastly approximation of the Expression, but there’s real glee behind the eyes. Kim squints. “You’re stringing me along, aren’t you?” </p><p>“I was hoping for more of a dramatic reveal but yes. I think I've got it figured out.”  </p><p>Kim’s lips twist into a soft smile. “Then enlighten me, detective.” </p><p>   </p><p>“First, we must consider all the evidence we have in our possession.” Harrier puffs out his chest, pacing measuredly back and forth between the desks. “And what’s that? A nightshift security guard- fired. The seemingly pointless removal of the painting from a place in full view of the cameras to the archives- although the alcove provided enough cover for the act itself to remain a mystery. The missing chemicals. The keys.” </p><p>“And you have a theory?”  </p><p>“More than that.” He stops suddenly, rooted in place. “I think I found it.” </p><p>Kim looks the detective up and down, pieces falling into place. </p><p><em> The floorboard under his foot. There’s a nail loose, causing it to squeak with every movement</em><em>.  </em> </p><p>Harry must catch some of his internal exchange as he grins. “You got it, Kim.”  </p><p>A real-life hidden compartment in the floor? Sure, he’s seen stranger things, more fanciful places to stow illicit items. There's something so compelling about this one though, how snugly it fits just under a desk... </p><p>“Do we know who sits here?” He points at the table and Harry looks up from readying his crowbar. </p><p>“Not sure. We can ask someone later.” He grunts with effort and the floorboard gives. </p><p>Instead of a dark space, what greets them is the silvered face of a safe. Half of it disappears under a second floorboard, this one fully covered by the table. </p><p>“Help me move this.” Kim grabs the desk, shifting it just enough to gain access. The second floorboard protests only for a moment before it too is ripped from its place like a rotten tooth. Harry stands back to admire his destructive handiwork. </p><p>The safe is primitive, no numbers or dials, just an industrial-looking lock. Kim and Harry exchange a knowing look. </p><p>“If the keys we found fit, you’re buying me dinner.” Kim throws. The detective gropes his pockets for them. </p><p>He smiles fondly. “You’re on.” </p><p>Several of the keys are too thin, too small, but the one they had theorised before would fit a padlock slides in just fine. There’s a tense moment where it doesn’t want to turn, but Harry places the keychain in his hands and Kim lets INTERFACING do the rest. It gives. </p><p>“Bingo.” </p><p>“Dinner it is.” Harry concedes graciously. “You do the honours.” </p><p>The door is, unsurprisingly, stiff and heavy; he pulls it towards them sharply and it opens. Inside, a package wrapped in paper rests against plastic containers. The detective whistles lowly. </p><p>“Glassine. I think we’ve found our Innocence.” </p><p>ENCYCLOPAEDIA chimes in, explaining that the use of glassine paper can prevent moulding of the canvas. So that’s a canvas, for sure. </p><p>They unwrap it carefully, setting His Honour down on the level ground, away from the ragged nails and splintered wood. It’s beautiful; Sorokin had truly outdone herself with the restoration. Kim’s eyes rove over the topography of oil paint, the glint of gold, and there’s no question about it. The real deal. </p><p>It takes a moment to return to reality. </p><p>“What’s in the containers?” </p><p>“Probably whatever Jelena’s been missing the last few weeks. As well as paints-” Harry reaches in, pulling out a small box. “- And whatever this is.” </p><p>“Try the smaller key?” Kim passes them over, and the detective fumbles with them for a moment or two.  </p><p>“Doesn’t fit. Damn.” </p><p>He shrugs. “Guess there are only so many convenient solutions.”   </p><p>“It does mean, however, whoever has the key must be involved with this whole charade.” </p><p>They consider the fact in silence. </p><p>“Alright.” Kim stands, shaking dust and woodchips from his trousers. “I think we’re done here. Let’s go talk to Caruso.” </p><p>Harry nods curtly. “I’ve got a feeling we’re nearing the endgame.” </p><p> </p><p>Outside in the main hall, Jean stands over a wilting Sy. He looks over from his notebook in contempt as the young man puts on a show. </p><p>“Is it <em>necessary </em>for you to watch over me like a mother hen?” </p><p>“Yep.” Jean flips to the next page.  </p><p>ESPRIT DE CORPS acts as a supranatural sixth sense between those who work together in close proximity, Kim has come to understand. He can pick up on Harry but not yet Jean. Harry can pick up on most of the 41st. It doesn’t surprise him when Vicquemare glances over his shoulder prematurely, surprising himself with their presence.  </p><p>Even those without voices tend to rely on it by instinct.  </p><p>“Jelena is in the break room. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with her.” Kim nods in the general direction and Jean returns the gesture. </p><p>“Kid’s ready for you.” He lowers his voice, stepping towards the two detectives. “Piece of work, in my opinion.”  </p><p>“Thanks.” Harry flashes him a quick smile and Jean’s off, Judit waiting outside. Situation handled. </p><p> </p><p>Sy stares them down but doesn’t protest as they lead him to one of the nearby storage rooms: quiet and out of the way. A couple of chairs and a table have been pulled from the mess of equipment and set up against the wall. Kim gestures to one and takes the other. Harry stands behind him, hand on the backrest. The lieutenant flips open his notebook. </p><p>“Alright, no need to prolong this. We’d like to hear your version of the events that transpired this morning.”  </p><p>Caruso sighs, just stops himself from rolling his eyes, then collects himself. The transformation is impressive- from a bratty youth emerges a concerned young man, injured in the line of duty.  </p><p>“I’m sure you’ve already formed your opinion of me, based on whatever... information... you’ve been provided.” A sneer crosses Sy’s face before he manages to tame it. “I can assure you- you've been misled.” </p><p>Kim raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Hm. Get on with it.”  </p><p>“Where to begin...” He fidgets in his seat. “I’m a docent here, as you know. Just repeating myself for the record. Most of my time here I act as a tour-guide-slash-educator, so I’m out in the galleries with the public. Ask anyone. </p><p>I keep my belongings in the archives during the day, at my desk, so they don’t get in the way. I got thirsty after a morning tour and thought I’d make myself some tea.” He glances off to the side. </p><p><em> Unreliable narrator. </em>   </p><p>“I don’t like the usual stuff in the break room, so I keep my own stash.” </p><p>Again, breaking eye contact. Looks to the floor. </p><p>It’s a cheap tactic, trying to provoke guilt through eye contact when so many are uncomfortable with it in the first place. Kim knows that. He can’t shake the feeling though, not when this young man had been staring them both in the eye so intently a second ago, selling his story. </p><p>“In your desk?” </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>“Which one is that?” Harry interjects. </p><p>“How to describe it... Second from the furthest left, if you’re entering the archives from the main door.” </p><p>The detectives exchange a knowing look.  </p><p>“Sure.” Harry replies slowly. “So you went into the archives. What happened next?” </p><p>“Well. I noticed all the lights were on, which was strange. Our archivist is away on sick leave, you know. I thought I’d check if there was anyone in there. Lo and behold-” He sighs dramatically. “-There she was. Jelena. Standing over our priceless masterpiece, ruined. And then she attacked me.” </p><p>“Her version was a little different.” Kim notes curtly. </p><p>“I bet.” Sy almost spits, then collects himself again.  </p><p>“She said you attacked her. Tried to lock her in one of the climate-control rooms.” </p><p>That throws a wrench in the charade. “Um. I mean I overpowered her as she attacked me- she managed to sprain my wrist in the process. I thought locking her in there would give me enough time to call you.” </p><p>“But you weren’t the one to call.” </p><p>“No. Uh. No, that was the director.” He cradles the offended limb. “She got away, and I followed. She’s dangerous, you know. Black belt in some martial art or other.”  </p><p>“How heroic of you.” Harry snipes.   </p><p>SHIVERS crawls up Kim’s spine, whispers in his ear. <em> The break room is stuffy, sour smell of old coffee hanging in the air like fog. Jelena picks at her nails, leans her back </em><em>against the crooked walls. </em> <em>  Awaiting trial.  </em> </p><p>“What happened to the painting? It was out in the hall.”  </p><p>“Right. I took it with me to show to Taneka.” Caruso nods firmly.  </p><p>“And dropped it in the hall?” </p><p>“Well. She caught up with me... I’m lucky our new security guard was there to help me.” </p><p>“Yusef?” Kim flips back to his talk with Bern.  </p><p>“Uh, don’t think so. Think that guy’s now working night shift.” </p><p>“Alright.” Harry firmly claps his hand on Kim’s shoulder, steps forward. “We have a couple of questions. Now, answer honestly.” </p><p>“I’m always honest.” Caruso bats his eyelashes demurely and schools his expression to that of a lamb. Harrier leers and leans in. </p><p>“Why did you lie about having a morning tour?” </p><p>He blinks rapidly, clearly taken aback. “I’m sorry?”  </p><p>“The board in the museum hall. All the tour times are listed for today, and all are strictly in the afternoon.” </p><p>Ah, Kim notes. That’s what had Harry so spaced out when they first got here. Collecting data. Thank LOGIC and ENCYLOPAEDIA. </p><p>“Did I say morning tour? I meant my own morning duties...” Sy’s backpedalling faster than a chase in the Kineema, eyes darting wildly. Evading the detective’s piercing gaze just gets him caught on Kim’s eyebrow, poised at the ready.  </p><p>“Can we see your keys, please?”  </p><p>He slumps, defeated. “Why keys?” </p><p>Kim clears his throat and extends his hand; a second later Caruso hands them over. It’s mostly house keys, keys to large doors, a trinket or two hanging alongside a plastic-wrapped label. Harry moves round to the side of the table and produces the locked box from one of the countless pockets on his person.  </p><p>“We can do this the easy way... Or not.”  </p><p>A myriad of emotions cross the young man’s face as he recognises the box: stages of grief. He wasn’t expecting this. Surrendering information, sealing someone’s fate- sure, but it wasn’t meant to be his own. It’s too late to back out now.  </p><p>“This isn’t what it looks like.” </p><p>Wordlessly, Kim picks a key out from the bunch and places it on the table between them. The kid squirms in his chair; Harry stares him down.     </p><p>“Here’s what it looks like to me. Removing the painting from the wall? A reason to move it somewhere more private. Getting Audry fired? One less night guard, one you could try to ditch with the keys. The lubricant on the door hinges? Easier access to the archives. Not to mention- this box? The secret compartment under your very own desk? Attempting to blame Jelena..?”       </p><p>“Let’s see what’s in the box, detective.” Kim twists it in his hands, and it opens with a soft, metallic sound.  </p><p>Inside is a roll of paper, a money clip with a couple thousand Reál. It takes a moment for him to recognise it for what it is, due to the rarity of such large notes. The clip itself is a dull steel and tucked at the back of it is a banker’s cheque. </p><p>The name on the line leaves no room for error: to be paid to Sy Caruso, followed by an eye-watering amount. </p><p><em> Evidence, evidence!   </em>VISUAL CALCULUS hisses with glee. Kim hands the box over to Harry.  </p><p>“Care to explain this?” </p><p>He turns it in his hands. “Deposit plus payment, I’m assuming for the painting?” </p><p>Sy nods minutely, face frozen with a mixture of regret and anger. He could mention his businessman father or powerful connections, but too much is stacked against him. </p><p>Cornered like a wild animal, all he can do is growl.   </p><p>“You stole the chemicals to create a believable copy to destroy, leaving you free to sell His Honour behind the scenes. With the added benefit of framing Sorokin for your actions.” Harry speaks with a crisp precision, words dictated by the information around them. Kim can almost feel the hum of LOGIC.   </p><p>“Yes.” There’s no fight left in him. Sy knew he was done for as soon as he saw his name on the cheque.  </p><p>“Who were you selling it to?” </p><p>“We used code names, mostly.” </p><p>“But your name is on the paper?” </p><p>He grimaces, caught out. “I was just supposed to do their dirty work. They wrote out the cheque without me giving my name. I think they knew me before this proposition came up.” </p><p>Harry strokes the side of his face. “Smuggling ring, after all. That... Doesn’t surprise me, honestly.” </p><p>It's true, Kim muses, the situation is too complex for just one person to orchestrate. As unlikeable as Caruso is, he’s just a snot-nosed youngster in over his head. Add to that some unsavoury friends who used his position at the museum... </p><p>“Do you know where the transaction was supposed to take place?” </p><p>“Yeah.” The kid straightens his shirt collar absentmindedly. “Martinaise Harbour, tomorrow night.” </p><p>“We can call in with Titus later and let them know. Send someone out to deal with it.” The detective throws aside to Kim, who nods approvingly. “Wrap up loose ends.” </p><p>He stands, pushing the chair away with a squeak. “Detective?” </p><p>Harry shrugs on his coat. “C’mon, kid.”  </p><p>Caruso follows, somewhat deflated, looking like a scared teenager.  </p><p> </p><p>They lead him out to the car, where Jean and Judit had been waiting patiently. </p><p>“Found the painting.” Harry throws. </p><p>“Right on.” Vicquemare grimaces in a way that could be interpreted as a smile. “Case closed?” </p><p>“Will be, soon enough.” He looks over his shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll be reeling in some big fish with small bait. Any chance we could get a patrol down to Martinaise tomorrow?” </p><p>“Do it yourself.” Jean grumbles, opening the back door for Sy. Judit sticks her head out of the driver’s seat window. </p><p>“I’m free. I’ll take JV.” She flashes Kim a knowing look he doesn’t quite decipher. </p><p>He’ll have to ask her on Monday, over coffee. “Thank you.” </p><p>“What’s got you two so busy tomorrow night anyway?” The satellite officer circles the car, taking up position as shotgun.  </p><p>Harry smiles, and a warmth washes over Kim. He coughs discreetly, steps from one foot to the other. The detective turns on his heel dramatically, throws a sweeping look over his shoulder- </p><p>“Seems like I owe someone dinner.” </p><p>-And he’s off, patting the side of Kim’s Kineema like one would a horse. INLAND EMPIRE again, huh.  </p><p>I’m in love, Kim thinks. That’s a one-liner straight out of Dick Mullen and it’s got me weak. </p><p>The thought must show on his face as Jean asks him what he’s so happy about.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>no thoughts head empty</p><p>I had something to say here but it left me. Let's just say the next chapter will be PURE Harry and Kim interacting, just needed to finish the case so that'd be out of the way. What to expect? I'm a sucker for fluff. That's all the spoilers I'm giving.</p><p>Stay lovely and may all your days be happy xxx<br/>James</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The early summer sun glints treacherously in the slow-moving water, and Kim shivers. It's been a few weeks since the last time he was here; watching the river wind its way lazily towards Martinaise, falcon circling overhead. </p><p>There’s a soft pressure on his shoulders and he’s startled to note it’s a fur coat, surprisingly light. Harry presses a hand to the small of his back and leans against the railing. </p><p>“Only you would get cold in June.” </p><p>Kim smiles, a gentle uptick of the corners of his mouth. “Good weather always throws me off.” He pulls the fur closer around himself.  </p><p>Revachol. He sighs softly, turns to face his partner. </p><p>Harry watches him unabashedly.  “Any plans for our day off?” </p><p>“It’s not exactly a day off...” He tilts his head towards the museum, on the other side of the river. They had arrived a half hour too early and crossed the bridge at Harry’s insistence- Kim had to admit the fried pierogi the detective had managed to haggle off a street vendor were worth any detour.  </p><p><em> The scent of </em><em>oil and</em><em> dough clinging to </em><em>your </em><em>jacket</em><em>,</em><em>Harrier’s cologne surrounding </em><em>you</em><em> as </em><em>you</em><em> nuzzle</em><em> into </em><em>the co</em><em>at</em><em>. The distant roar of boat engines, the hum of people</em><em>; the city is living. The city is breathing. </em>SHIVERS presses up against his arm, cooing softly. <em>How does it feel to be alive again? </em>     </p><p>Kim nods at the bridge, their destination a speck in the distance.  </p><p>“We’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”  </p><p>“Fashionably late, baby.” Harry throws him a sharp grin but concedes, shrugging off his blazer. </p><p>They meander through the riverside streets, running into the odd dead end, pausing by the barrier to watch the water. It’s a good day. Lazy day. </p><p>Kim thinks back to their shared breakfast, sandwiches by the roadside as the police radio blared messages blurred by the miles of the Pale. He recalls that the Kineema sits on the other bank, entrusted to fate and the hope that Grand Couron sees itself as a cut above petty wheel theft.  </p><p>He’s walking on autopilot, lost in his thoughts, when Harry draws him into a narrow alley. </p><p> </p><p>It’s too small really to stand side-by-side, and he pulls Kim gently into his arms, dipping him like an old-fashioned gentleman. It takes all the COMPOSURE the lieutenant can muster to not shoot Harry the eyebrow- instead he lets out a long-suffering sigh and melts into the embrace. </p><p>Cat got the cream, after all.  </p><p>“Please tell me this isn’t case related.” </p><p>A smile lights up Harry’s eyes. “Day off. Just thought you’d appreciate the privacy.” </p><p>“Mhm.” He closes his eyes, leans his forehead against Harry’s shoulder. The detective presses a light kiss to the top of his head. </p><p><em> Where’s your game, </em><em>Kitsuragi</em><em>? </em> ELECTROCHEMISTRY stirs like indigestion, hot at the back of his throat. Kim can feel a growl building, something rough and heavy, whipped into shape by AUTHORITY. He lets it roll across his tongue, and suddenly he’s practically mashing his face into Harry’s, desperate to chase whatever had him smiling so smugly just seconds ago. </p><p>Harry yelps with an odd delight, teeth clashing with lips until they settle on a more comfortable combination- until then it’s just on the delicious side of desperation, pawing at each other like teenagers. </p><p>Hey, the dark alley has probably seen worse. </p><p><em> Murder, </em>SHIVERS adds helpfully, which cools them both a little. Kim’s sure he’s panting, lips numb, the skin on his neck sensitive from stubble. Harry’s lip is bleeding, nipped at in the heat of the moment, and it shouldn’t be as hot as this- but it is. He reminds himself to breathe. </p><p>“Khm.” Kim rubs a hand across his face, adjusts his glasses. He straightens his jacket. Harry wipes at his mouth, blood smearing across the back of his hand. </p><p>“Vampyr.” It’s light and teasing, his eyes sparkling with life. Kim reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, offers it with warm remorse. </p><p>“My apologies.” Something hot burns behind his face but Kim’s pleasantly surprised to discover it isn’t shame- just regular embarrassment, stewed with lust. “I got... carried away.” </p><p>“No harm done.” Harry dabs the cloth against his lip, lopsided smile creasing his features. He turns his wrist to check the time.  </p><p>“Fashionably late?”   </p><p>“Getting there. C’mon.” </p><p>They slink out the alley and make their way towards the bridge. </p><p> </p><p>----- </p><p> </p><p>THE PERNIKARNASSIAN RETURNED.  </p><p>It’s an opening ceremony not to be missed, the museum shrouded with blue-and-gold drapery, people lined up outside. Jelena sticks out like a sore thumb, in her best pink suit; as soon as she catches sight of the detectives, she gives a shy little wave and hurries over. </p><p>“Officers.” She schools her face into an expression of gratitude. “Good to have you back.” </p><p>“Likewise.” Kim grips her hand in a firm handshake.  </p><p>Harry interjects. “Sorry we’re late.” </p><p>“No problem at all. We haven’t opened yet- the director got stuck in the elevator.” </p><p>“Oh. Khm. Are they okay?”  </p><p>“Yeah,” she shrugs. “Some kid pressed too many buttons and the system glitched out. They’re out now but we’re running a quarter hour behind.” </p><p>“It happens to the best of us.” Harry nods sagely. </p><p> She leads them to the front of the queue, flashing her staff ID card. They're let through by a familiar-looking face. </p><p>“Detectives.” Audry grins as they pass. Harry stops to shake his hand. </p><p>“Got your job back?”  </p><p>“That and more. I’m on dayshift now, and head of security.” He holds his head high, the dark circles fading from under his eyes.  </p><p>Another puzzle piece, back in place. Kim nods politely.  </p><p>They pause just a second longer before Jelena throws them an impatient look over her shoulder, and then they’re in the main hall.   </p><p> </p><p>It’s strange, walking through the empty room, having only seen it open for business. Kim finds his eyes drifting up the elongated columns to where they nest in the carefully carved ceiling.  </p><p>“Beautiful.” Harry murmurs by his side.  </p><p>The cold stroke of CONCEPTUALISATION falls between them, and Kim blinks. Years of architecture, of modifications, fall apart before him. Then piece themselves back together. He shudders. </p><p>Jelena walks a few steps ahead with a clear sense of purpose, leading them through spacious halls and long corridors. They pass countless statues, paintings, elaborate installations; at this pace it all blurs beyond recognition. He focuses instead on the man by his side. </p><p>Harry moves silently. His face is lit up in awe, drinking in the same information that Kim had felt so overwhelming. They complement each other well, he considers with a fondness. Not as much two halves of a whole- he never liked that comparison, the insistence that he himself was not enough. He nods firmly. More a Venn diagram. Their lives comfortably intertwined.     </p><p>The detective must catch some odd whisp of EMPATHY as he pauses, smiling softly.  </p><p>“Right.” Jelena turns around suddenly, causing both officers to stop short. “On the left here.” </p><p> </p><p>It’s the room with the alcoves, exactly where everything started. The Innocences are lined up on the walls in a comical order of appearance. His Honour stands tall on a sturdy easel in the centre of the room, cordoned off with thick blue rope. Alongside is a neat placard explaining the painting’s history.  </p><p>“You’ve outdone yourself.” Harry winks good-naturedly. Jelena flushes.  </p><p>“Thank you.” She fiddles with a button on her jacket. “Hopefully that’s the last time I’ll be working on that particular painting.” Her voice is a little unsteady.    </p><p><em> Nervous, but why? </em> The voice twists itself into his shoulder muscles, and Kim tenses almost involuntarily. He steadies himself, leans into it- </p><p>The posture, the bright look in her eyes, the pride with which she carries herself. The ID card- a new security measure or something only handed out to staff members higher up? </p><p>Kim settles. “Congratulations- a promotion?”  </p><p>“Oh, thank you.” Her brow furrows. “How did you-?”  </p><p>“You deserve it. It makes sense it would be you, with Sy gone.” </p><p>She waves a hand, clearly embarrassed but pleased, nonetheless. “Suppose I’ve been here long enough. Speaking of which-” Jelena’s eyes dart to her wristwatch. “I’ll have to leave you. Gallery’s opening.” </p><p>She turns on her heel but thinks better of it, once again facing them both. “I just- Thank you. For everything.” </p><p>“Just doing our job.”   </p><p>“Good luck. See you later.” Harry nods pleasantly. Kim copies the motion almost instinctively. “We’ll be along soon enough.” </p><p> </p><p>It takes a moment for Sorokin’s footsteps to fade. It takes another for Kim to nudge Harry’s fingers with his own. The two of them fall quiet, eyes of the Innocences burning on them.   </p><p> </p><p><em> Back in the main hall, the director emerges from the elevator </em><em>with theatrical flair. The doors op</em><em>en. The crowd roars- </em> </p><p><em> This isn’t Rome, </em><em>panem </em><em>et </em><em>circenses</em><em>. The crowd follows </em><em>the path marked out in mosaics; </em><em>the human chain splits and flows like riverwater.  </em> </p><p> </p><p>“You’re thinking too loud.” Harry’s voice rumbles lowly beside him. </p><p>He sighs. “You’re probably right on that.” </p><p>“Sorry. I’ll try to tune you out.” He hums absentmindedly, leaning against his partner. “'T was interesting, either way.” </p><p>“It’s alright.” Kim shakes his head, SHIVERS seeping out slowly. “I was projecting, I think.” </p><p>There’s a lot going on in his head and some inevitably leaks out, Pale-sieve that he is. Harry gets it. He knows Harry gets it.  </p><p>He can feel it in the soft stroke of his thumb rubbing circles into his palm, the half-second pause when he first invited Harrier to his flat, the countless, sleepless nights spent on their precinct-issued shortwave-radios...   </p><p>Kim Kitsuragi considers- it’s something else, to have someone understand you wholly and entirely.  </p><p>Someone to brave each sunrise with.  </p><p>There’s a dull echo down the corridor, the first of the tour groups, and they both startle. <em> Arteries, capillaries, veins, filling with life. </em> </p><p>“C’mon.” The detective flashes him a smile. “The world awaits.”   </p><p>Harry squeezes his hand, once, and leads them towards the exit.  </p><p>For once, Kim doesn’t look back.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And SCENE!!!</p><p>God, it's been a journey. My first time writing something of this length, my first completed chapter fic, my first time recognising people in the comments, you wonderful people who come back time and time again with your love and support and encouragement. </p><p>I first played Disco Elysium back in April, having pined for it for months prior. I was sad and lonely, having had to give up my life and move back across the country to live with family- this fic was my escape. </p><p>I write this now having been able to return home, miraculously about to start my next year of studies, having found my friends again. From the bottom of my heart- thank you. I needed you. </p><p>I hope you enjoyed it! Have a lovely day xxxx<br/>Jim</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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